


Mount Unto the Stars

by laventadorn



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: EWE, M/M, Murder Mystery, Post DH They Lived!AU, References to Dante's Inferno, Religious Themes, Romance, Snupin Santa 2011, canon-compliant pairings, except the Snupin obvs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-25
Updated: 2011-12-25
Packaged: 2019-03-31 22:26:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 20
Words: 95,211
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13984608
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/laventadorn/pseuds/laventadorn
Summary: Christmas 1999: an untraceable poison is sending the magical world into a panic. As an employee in the Department of Magical Accidents and Catastrophes, Remus is caught up in the investigation, but he's as lost as everyone else... until he has an almost miraculous encounter with Severus Snape, whom everyone thought long since dead.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> From the most holy water I returned  
> Regenerate, in the manner of new trees  
> That are renewed with a new foliage,  
> Pure and disposed to mount unto the stars.  
> ~ _Purgatorio_ , Canto Thirty-Three  
> Dante Alighieri

  _Four Days_

"I can't believe it's come to this," Harry muttered.

"Sorry," Remus said, but he was more concerned with keeping the bundle in his arms from squirming away.

Harry turned large eyes toward him, shadowed by the underside of the desk above them. His glasses were smudged and his fringe was sweaty. "You should be," he said. "This is all your fault."

"Now, Harry old son," George said, from underneath his own desk across the aisle. His nose was black with soot; his eyes gleamed. "You know you should apportion dreadfulest blame where it belongs. This is clearly the fault of"—he pointed at the bundle in Remus' arms— "Remus' truly evil spawn."

"Bang!" Teddy cried, throwing his arms up. As if on cue, a series of bangs, whistles and hissing howls exploded (anew) somewhere in the air above their desks, to the shrieking glee of children.

"I'm so proud," George said. "I hope my own spawn is one day half so bad."

"You want this one?" Remus asked, wrestling Teddy back into his arms and tickling him ruthlessly. "I'm thinking I'll be glad to tie him in a sack and sell him to you."

Teddy shrieked happily and grew fangs, which he sank into Remus' cuff. His eyes, which had turned bright yellow with excitement, darted up to Remus' face, since there had been some very stern lectures on how you didn't grow fangs and bite people just because.

"Chom' chom'," he said, chewing on Remus' cuff.

Someone with a tangle of long red hair landed on their side of their desk with a thud. Ginny scrambled in next to Harry, smelling like singed cotton.

"Holy damn!" She was grinning and wide-eyed, her hair flying out in straggling pieces. "A firework boom almost took my head off. What happened?"

"Remus' offspring is making an early bid as king havoc-wreaker at Hogwarts," George said fondly. "Bless him."

"Ginnee!" Teddy cried, the tips of his hair morphing red to match her shade. "I blew up!"

Ginny reached across Harry to tickle Teddy. "I'd say he'll win the bid, the whole room is on fire."

"He somehow got a packet of Busting Phillibuster's lit," Harry said, with a tinge of pride his voice. "Then he chucked them at a bunch of kids standing near the Glorious Goop of Glory display, and, well—"

"So that's why there's slime," Ginny said approvingly.

"I'm glad you all appreciate Teddy's budding talents," Remus said, making his voice very serious. "When we're banned from every household and business establishment in Britain, I hope you'll let us come over to wreck everything you own."

"In a heartbeat," George said. "It's such a pleasure to mold twisted young minds. All right—I say we've been under these desks long enough, aye? What say you, team?"

"I could go out with a bang," Harry said, taking out his wand. Ginny and George pulled theirs out, too.

"Ready?" all three of them said, as the tips of each wand started to glow. Teddy was watching avidly, trapped in the circle of Remus' arms.

Harry, Ginny and George scrambled out from beneath their desks and lobbed lit fireworks across the shop-room; Remus managed to get to his feet in time so that Teddy could watch. Children screamed joyfully as the fireworks pelted into them, sizzling and banging. A billowing cloud of smoke flashing with bolts of lightning exploded from floorboards to rafters, shaking the foundations of the room and knocking products off their shelves. Ginny and Teddy cheered. George made a solemn bow.

Harry grinned at Remus, looking equal parts happy and sheepish. "I'm just glad Hermione wasn't here to see that."

"If you speak of the devil, Harry," Ginny warned, smirking.

George waded forward. Singed and awed children crowded round him and a haze of green-purple-black smoke hovered. He started levitating fallen boxes off the floor for his customers to grab, which they did, shoving and climbing over each other now they'd seen their full power on display. Remus had a blinding vision of the increased workload that would sweep Accidents & Catastrophes from hundreds of children being armed to the teeth with Wheezes' fireworks.

"Well," he sighed, "now that's over..." And he swung Teddy upside down, keeping hold of him by his calves. Teddy cackled joyfully.

"What punishment shall we devise?" he asked, swinging him gently from side to side.

"Nevereversussend!" Teddy called.

"Then it's the Pygmy Puff cage for you," George said, his voice like leaves blowing through a tunnel. When Remus heaved Teddy upright, George looped him neck-to-knees in a Gryffindor scarf. Teddy loved this.

"Yay!"

"Uh oh," Harry said.

Remus turned, the scarf-wrapped bundle of his very badly behaved son in his arms—but it was only a wide-eyed Hermione and a curious-looking Ron, waving smoke out of their faces as they came in through the door. They stared at a clump of soot-stained children; Ron started to grin.

"What have you been doing?" Hermione asked, coming down from surprise to weary suspicion.

"Nothing," Ginny and George said together, both adopting wide-eyed looks of innocence that wouldn't have fooled even Teddy. Of course, Teddy was very sharp at sniffing out suspicious behavior. He liked to be a part of it.

"Hi Hermeenee!" Teddy said brightly. He'd got one arm free of the scarf to wave at her. "I been verrbad!"

Hermione stepped over some cardboard carcasses of Wheezes' gifts to kiss his cheek.

"Why doesn't that surprise me?" she asked dryly. Teddy's smile turned sweet and charming; his eyes went from yellow to china blue.

"Because he's a little devil," Remus said. "And I don't mean that in the precious way."

At eighteen months, Teddy understood most things that were said to him now, even if it was only tone. He peeped up at Remus and turned his hair to golden ringlets.

"I can't believe I missed it," Ron complained to Harry.

Hermione rolled her eyes but didn't comment. Remus took note that after eighteen months of dating Ron, she had given up on scolding many things. Still, it was better she hadn't been there during the fireworks fight.

"You're not working today, are you?" she asked Remus. "Do you have time to get a bite before you have to meet Andromeda?"

"Let's see—can you tell me what time it is?" he asked Teddy. When he lifted his wrist, Teddy obligingly tugged down his sleeve and grabbed the watch to read, glaring at the numbered face with concentration.

"Eleventy-two!" he declared.

"We're working on it," Remus told Hermione.

* * *

Garlands flecked with magical snow hung on every storefront and wound around the lamp-posts. Each window's buttery glow poured onto the wet, icy cobblestones; a welcome sight, since the sky had been hard and low and grey from the start of December. With its evergreen boughs and glowing storefronts, Diagon Alley would have looked quite peaceful, were it not for the fact that each business was fighting a ferocious competition to out-do all the others with the extravagance of their decorations—trains that wove through snowy villages crafted in miniature; skating house-elves (fake, of course, since house-elves would consider ice-skating a horrendous waste of time that could otherwise be spent working); baubles changing their colors from cobalt blue to ghostly silver, crimson and emerald; sparkling fairies that lived in holly garlands; wreaths twisted into snowflake and star shapes. George's disastrous creativity had him changing his decorations once a week, a stroke of brilliance which fed the mayhem around him as his neighbors scrambled to keep up. Two days ago on Friday, this had led a rampaging polar bear display destroying the front windows of Wisacres Wizarding Equipment.

Remus (carrying Teddy, who had all his mother's powers of ill-coordination), Hermione and Harry left the Weasleys supervising chaos at George's shop, and schlepped through the icy drizzle to the restaurant Hermione had picked. Ron didn't like restaurants very much, and when cajoled into going out, only wanted to eat British food at pubs. For anything more adventurous, Hermione had to find other comrades or go alone; and Remus, having spent a couple of years being victimized by Dora's intrepid food choices, always offered himself as a sacrifice.

He missed Dora. He supposed he always would, the way he would always miss Sirius and James and Lily. For a moment he pressed his cheek against the top of Teddy's head. His son looked curiously up at him, and then smiled a sweet, almost heart-wrenching smile. He was extremely manipulative, Remus thought with a twist of pride.

"Now we are not going to blow anything up," he said sternly to his son, whose nose changed slightly to a more angelic shape as his eyes went china-blue again, his hair returning to golden ringlets.

"And no biting anyone, either," Harry added cheerfully. "Oh, damn, that's a reporter—"

He ducked around Remus' right side, tugging his hat low over his scar. Remus glanced over as they navigated the around a quadrangle of shoppers; a youngish man wearing a fedora was examining a pair of identical twins dressed in violet voile, his expression one of avaricious interest. The photographer at his side was picking his teeth.

Remus continued: "And no setting anything on fire. No growing pointed ears to scare the waiters." They still hadn't got to the point where Remus could take Teddy to Muggle places. It wasn't that he didn't understand he couldn't morph in front of them without causing chaos; it was the fact that he did understand that.

"You know what this is, Remus," Hermione said, sounding rather smug as she pushed open the restaurant door, "it's payback for all that havoc you wreaked in the Marauders."

"The thought had occurred to me," he said wryly.

The restaurant, Dimly Dim Sum, was up a flight of stairs above Amaneunsis Quills; its windows looked down on Diagon and the thrum of Christmas shoppers. Whether from its own involvement in the Christmas Decoration Skirmish or from personal taste, the restaurant's walls were crimson, painted with magnificent gold and green dragons, whose scales flickered in the lamplight.

Even though it was two o'clock on a Sunday afternoon, the place was crammed with shoppers; Remus, Harry and Hermione were just able to crowd inside the door behind a pair of overdressed matrons waiting to be seated. One of them was wearing a hat along whose brim ran a working model train. Remus made sure Hermione was standing between him and the woman's hat, so that Teddy couldn't grab it off her head.

"...just terrible, what happened to poor Agnes," Monstrous Hat was saying. "An awful prank to pull on the poor girl, and just before Christmas, too!"

"Poor, poor Agnes," said her friend. "St. Mungos'll soon have her straightened out, leastwise, poor dear. But is it true the _whole_ party—?"

"Oh, aye, it's very true—every soul she'd had over to dinner! Well, she thinks it was Melody Batton, of course, they've never got on, and she did send an invite to Melody's sister but not Melody, so she has a bit of a reason—but Richard is on the Accidental Reversal Squad, and he said..."

Whatever Richard had said was lost to time as she and her friend left with the hostess.

"Accidental Reversal Squad, eh?" Harry said curiously. "You hear anything about it, Remus?"

"Oh—yes, although it's not anything you'd want to hear while—" Remus paused as they all crushed themselves against the wall to let a family of six go past, each person trailing at least three shopping bags apiece.

"Table for three?" the harassed hostess said, returning. "Or four?"

Remus was pleased that fate awarded them a table by the window; he liked to be able to look out of rooms. The hostess simply pointed them to it, and they sidled through what space they could.

"We wouldn't want to hear while we what?" Harry said, ducking a wizard's wild gestures accompanying the story he was telling his bored date.

"While you eat." Remus lifted Teddy over his head, blithely ignoring the people around him who were alarmed by Teddy's delighted squeals. They could pass judgment when they had to keep the worst-behaved eighteen-month-old in the wizarding world entertained.

"It was that bad?" Hermione said. She squeezed into her chair, accidentally knocking a wizard's hat into his congee in the process.

"It's only rather—well, it's a bit gruesome, but it's not nearly the worst thing I've ever heard of a potion doing." He offered Teddy a seat beside him on the booth, but Teddy was in the phase where he never took the first offer and chose to sit in Remus' lap instead. He grabbed the wax pencil (meant for marking their food choices on the menus) and started scrawling more manic-looking versions of the wall dragons all over the menu.

"You're not making us want to hear it any less," Harry said.

"All the things I'm thinking on my own are quite dreadful enough to put me off lunch in any case," Hermione added.

Some spirit of Christmas mischief made Remus say: "Are you very, very sure? I'm not so sure you're sure." He couldn't help laughing at the expression on Hermione's face and relented. "Honestly, I'm really not sure she was talking about the same thing. I did hear about a dinner party on Friday night winding up in St. Mungos from some kind of potions backfire, but everyone in Accidents & Catastrophes tells me that's so common around this time of the year—"

"Dragong!" Teddy produced his artwork with a George-like flourish.

"Very fearsome," Remus said.

"Feersum," Teddy agreed.

"Looks like we'll have to order for you, Remus." Hermione smiled at Teddy, who was now trying to give himself glowing gold and red eyes like the dragons on the wall.

"How does this work?" Harry picked up the wax pencil and made an experimental nick on the laminated menu. "Do we mark it with these pencils?"

"Yes, just however many of each dish you want in the little box there. They're fairly small, so Remus is going to have to order about fifty of everything." Hermione's smile faded in a flash of concern. "I didn't think about that. Remus, do you want to go somewhere else—?"

"I like dim sum," he assured her.

Harry grinned at him, looking such a mixture of Lily and James it was impossible to tell where one left off and the other began. "I hope there'll be something left in the restaurant for us to eat."

"I may leave you a plate," Remus said. "A single plate."

Teddy stood up in his lap so Remus could get a good look at his dragon eyes. The pupils were slitted, the irises rings of red and gold.

"Fearsome," Remus told him, pushing his curls back from his face. Teddy grinned and gave himself dragon fangs.

His morph had relaxed by the time a waitress squeezed through the throng to take their orders. In one of the rare moments when Andromeda partially thawed toward Remus, she had explained that achieving a morph was easier for them when they were young, but that they couldn't hold it until they got older; Dora had said it took concentration to keep it in place. Teddy could flicker through morphs like mad, but they always lapsed within a minute or two. When they handed their menus—well, Hermione and Harry's—to the waitress, Teddy's hair and eyes had reverted to their regular dark brown.

"Do you mind if we keep this one?" Remus asked the waitress, holding up Teddy's dragons. "It's become a work of art for the present."

"Oh," she said, beaming at Teddy, "aren't you a sweet little thing."

Teddy gave her a haughty look. In a split second his dragon eyes had returned, and he grew out fangs to match. " _Feersum_ ," he declared.

She dropped their menus. Harry tried not to laugh and ended up snorting his water. Teddy looked enormously pleased with himself.

"Teddy," Remus said in a warning voice. Teddy's brown hair melted to glittering gold and his eyelashes grew preposterously long.

"Oh my." The waitress bent to scrape the menus off the floor. "That's—that's amazing. I'll just go put these orders in, Professor, Miss Granger, Mr. Potter." Then she thrust back through the crowd, looking flushed.

"Celebrities even in the dim sum restaurant," Harry said, "that's us." He leaned forward to muss Teddy's golden hair, grinning. "And now you."

Keeping his tone stern but not scolding, Remus said to his son, "Teddy, that is exactly what you should not do."

"It must be very hard to maintain discipline with everyone encouraging him all the time," Hermione said to Remus, but she was giving Harry a stare as pointed as a flint.

"Hey," Harry protested, "I think he comes by it naturally. Neither of his parents were ever glowing models of good behavior." His next grin was for Remus.

"I think you were right the first time, Hermione," Remus sighed, conjuring a straw for his glass of water, which he held for Teddy to drink. "It's retribution for all my sins."

For all Teddy's other iniquities, he had good table manners for an eighteen-month-old. He only dropped about half his food on regular occasion and perhaps only three quarters of the dim sum, which was not the best kind of food to feed a baby; it tended to fall apart even in the grown ups' hands. Harry was scraping the scattered fillings of his dumplings off his plate with a spoon, and Remus was simply vanishing everything that dropped onto his lap and the floor.

"Messy, aren't you?" Harry said to Teddy, who was mangling a sweet rice dumpling beyond all recognition with his dragon fangs.

"Messee!" Teddy agreed, slapping at a plate of soy sauce and slopping it all over his hand and the once-pristine tablecloth.

Remus dried his son off with a napkin while Hermione navigated the dish to safety. "Actually," he said, "Andromeda's got him fairly tidy for a baby his age."

He wished his voice didn't sound so distant, because—yes, there it is, he thought when Harry and Hermione traded a flickering glance. But they didn't say anything. Probably they didn't know what to say. There was nothing new on the custody front. There never was. And all of Harry's appeals and Hermione's attempts at repealing had only come up against a wall of prejudice and social indifference as thick as an Arctic continent.

"At least we got to go out today, hm?" He smoothed back Teddy's hair again and smiled at him; Teddy had picked up on the sudden tension and was looking at all of them suspiciously, but especially at his father.

"Go out more," Teddy said sternly. He turned his eyes and hair the color of Remus' and folded his arms, the way Remus had done when he walked into Andromeda's sitting-room and found that Teddy had pulled all the ornaments off the bottom of the tree.

"When did Andromeda say she wanted to—pick him up?" Hermione asked, sounding almost timid.

"After her appointment was over at Healer Tatiana's." He checked his watch again. "Which should have been... Lord, half an hour ago at least."

"I told George where we were," Hermione said anxiously, "do you think she could have—"

She stopped, her eyes narrowing on Harry's face. Remus knew why; he'd seen the flicker of guilt, too.

"Harry," she said in a low, ominous voice, "what did you do?"

Harry made the bad choice of faking nonchalance. "I just asked Ginny and George if maybe they could keep her distracted for a bit, so we could finish lunch."

"You mean you told them not to tell her where we were!" Hermione said angrily. "How could you?"

"I didn't have to tell them, they agree with me," Harry said, his anger matching hers now.

Without a word Remus started winding Teddy into his coat and scarf, which was shaped like a bright green snake, Teddy's current favorite animal. Teddy's eyes were moving from Hermione's angry face to Harry's, and the tips of his hair were starting to glow silver like an incipient Lumos.

"If they'd told her where we'd gone, she'd have showed up here in the middle of everything and taken Teddy away without a by-your-leave—"

"Which is her right," Hermione hissed, throwing some galleons on the table; Harry did the same. They were both glaring at each other.

"You think I like it?" Hermione continued in a furious undertone as Remus scooped up Teddy. "You think that's what I want to happen?"

"No," Harry snapped, banging the restaurant door shut behind him and thumping after her down the stairs; Teddy was watching them over Remus' shoulder, silent and clinging to his lapels. "I don't, all right, but I don't see why we always have to let her push—us around!"

Push Remus around. At least he had enough delicacy not to say that.

"Because if we ever want custody, we have to play by the rules, Harry! However unfair they are! I can't believe I always have to explain to you—"

Remus was glad to be able to slip into the noise of the street below, to let the bubbling crowd swallow their argument. He bounced Teddy slightly, gaining his attention, and smiled. "We're going to see Gran," he said. "Show her your dragon eyes."

Teddy nodded solemnly. Remus wondered how much he had understood, just now. He laid his head on Remus' shoulder and grew a monkey tail, looping it three times around Remus' wrist.

"Mr Potter!" Oh damn, they'd walked straight into that reporter. His quill was out, his eyes gleaming like the lens of his photographer's camera. "Trouble in paradise? Why don't you tell us all about it?"

"Why don't you keep straight who's my girlfriend," Harry snarled; Hermione grabbed his right arm, presumably to stop him from going for his wand.

"Ignore them," she bit out, but she gave the reporter a truly malevolent glare as she hauled Harry past. The photographer took a shot anyway, his camera belching a cloud of smoke that was sure to cling to everyone's hair.

"Bad!" Teddy scolded, pointing over Remus' shoulder at the reporter. "Sod you stupid!"

"I'm glad Andromeda didn't hear _that_ ," Remus muttered, grabbing Teddy's accusing hand and picking up the pace before the reporter could take a picture of his son. He heard another flash behind him, but he plunged into a crowd of shoppers.

The three of them staggered free of the shopping crowd within half a block of George's shop.

"I hate those people," Hermione said fiercely, shoving her hair out of her face. "Human vultures. Now they're going to be printing all sorts of lies about me and Harry—"

"Like they do every day." Harry tugged his glasses straight; the left end had come loose from his ear. "At least it'll break the monotony from all those stories about me losing my mind."

"Honestly," Hermione said. "I wish they'd just leave the poor man alone, he's dead, isn't he?"

"Snape was innocent," Harry reminded her sharply; Remus sensed this was an argument they lapsed into often when they were together. "He deserves to be exonerated at the least!"

"I know he was innocent, Harry, but maybe you should be doing something else besides fighting for his reputation—I don't mean to be indelicate, you know I don't, but there's so much wrong right now and I think some other focus might be more—"

"Thank Merlin." Ron appeared so suddenly in the front entrance to Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes that Remus almost walked into him; he stopped suddenly enough that Hermione and Harry piled up against his back.

"She's furious," Ron muttered, jerking his head to the left, presumably where Andromeda was stewing in a rage. "I don't think any of us are her favorite people right now, but especially Ginny—"

"You couldn't tell her where we'd gone?" Hermione demanded.

"As if Ginny would've let him," Harry said, squeezing past Remus. "They in the break room, Ron?" he called over his shoulder.

"Yeah," Ron called back. "Damn, he's brave," he said, awed, as Harry pushed open the violently purple curtains to the break room and disappeared inside. "I mean, I know he faced down You-Know-Who and all those Death Eaters, but he is really brave, I'm just telling you."

Remus fought the urge to laugh. He let enough of it out to smile at his son again, even though he wasn't looking forward to this at all.

"Come on," he said, bouncing Teddy, whose monkey tail, to Remus' surprise, was still wrapped tightly around his arm. "Let's follow your godfather into the fray, hm?"

"Yes." Hermione's tone was terse and resolute. She grabbed Remus by the other wrist and they went, although Remus wasn't sure who was guiding whom. They were probably mutually reluctant.

"I've, er, got to supervise," Ron said hastily, and beetled off. Hermione rolled her eyes hugely and reached for the break room curtain.

"—don't care if you are, it's none of your right," Andromeda was saying furiously, her voice as loud as if she were trying to be heard across a crowded room.

"I never said it was," Harry replied, his tone implacable. He didn't sound remotely abashed. "It's _Remus'_ right to spend time with his son. I'm just along because I like him."

"Hello," Remus called loudly. Andromeda and Ginny turned toward him, but Harry remained with his eyes narrowed, watching Andromeda with every sign of dislike. Remus wished he were closer so he could step on his foot. _Not in front of Teddy_ , he thought. If only Harry were a Leglimens like Snape had been. Or even slightly subtle.

"How is everyone?" he added. Hermione stood beside him like a waxwork.

He gently unwrapped Teddy's tail from his wrist and used it to tickle his son's chin. Teddy gave a tiny shriek and squirmed, growing a pair of fangs with a 'pop' and making chomping motions at Remus' hand.

"Don't bite your own tail," Remus warned, laughing.

"Maybe you should let him," Ginny grinned. "Then maybe he wouldn't bite everyone else."

Andromeda seemed to have got herself under control. She came forward, her face as cool as a mountain lake and her arms held out. Remus transferred Teddy to her, trying not to feel as if his heart was being pulled free.

Andromeda's frosty expression thawed into a smile as soon as she was holding her grandson. "Did you have fun?" she asked him. "I heard you were very naughty."

"Who, mee?" Teddy asked, turning his tail to a red panda's.

"He learned that from George," Ginny said. "Not the panda tail, I mean. George only wishes he could grow tails."

Andromeda did not acknowledge this. As if no one had spoken since her aborted argument with Harry, she said, "Well, it's time to go home."

Tucking Teddy against her hip, she headed for the mantle, where George kept a Floo powder in a rather risqué (and literal) bust of a mermaid. Teddy twisted in her arms and reached for Remus silently, growing red panda ears to match his tail. Hermione made a soft noise at his side, but she said nothing. No one did.

Remus moved forward and pushed his hand through Teddy's brown hair. "I'll see you in a few days," he said, and kissed his son's forehead, trying to keep his grip gentle. He wanted to rip him away from Andromeda, shove her through the fire and blast the grate apart, so she could never come back, never take his son away from him again—

"Gentian Hollow," Andromeda said, dropping a handful of powder into the grate. As the flames flared green to knee-height, she stepped into the fireplace, cupping Teddy against her, and with a flash of emerald, they were gone.


	2. Chapter 2

It had been, Remus thought as he returned home, a deeply depressing end to a day that had otherwise been wonderful.

Part of its pleasure had been its rarity, the unexpectedness of receiving it. He got to see Teddy three evenings a week after work and on Saturdays, but it was always under Andromeda's supervision. As soon as he left the Ministry, he would go to her house—the house where Dora had grown up—and spend the evening with his son, in rooms draped in remembrances of his wife. Remus thought Andromeda had never forgiven him for coming back when Dora had not.

In the milder months, Andromeda let him take Teddy for walks, down the lane and past the old church with its cemetery, out to the fields spotted with farmland. The failed experiments at interacting with Muggles had happened there; but it was a good place for Teddy to try and get his legs under him, since the legs so frequently didn't cooperate. But Remus always had to be back within an hour and a half, because if he and Teddy weren't, Andromeda grew frantic and then furious when they turned up unharmed.

He was unsure whether her hatred of letting Teddy out of her sight stemmed from the kind of fear that wasn't likely to go away for a very long time, or from mistrust of himself. About a year ago Remus had given up asking if he could take Teddy out with him beyond the village; she wouldn't let him, and she didn't have to. She was Teddy's guardian, and Remus was only a werewolf. He had no rights but what she chose to give him. Harry and Hermione kept promising that times would change, one day, but they weren't changing fast enough. House-elves didn't learn to ice-skate in their free time, nor was a werewolf able to take his son home with him. One was as likely to happen as the other.

But Remus kept hoping, because in addition to evening and Saturday visits, hope was all he had.

His surprise, therefore, had been considerable when he'd answered a knock on the door that Sunday morning to find Andromeda with his son on her hip.

"Dadadada!" Teddy had cried; he still hadn't got the hang of ending words when he was excited.

"I had to make an appointment to see a Healer last night," Andromeda said, her tone as impersonal as if they were strangers. "I will be done around two thirty—I thought you might keep him until then."

"Of course." Teddy was lunging for him, so he gratefully took his son into his arms. Andromeda only let go at the last moment, but her eyes lingered on Teddy even when her hands were empty. "I hope nothing's wrong?"

"Nothing," Andromeda said, distant.

So he'd followed her to Diagon Alley at her instructions—intended to obey them, since he didn't have a choice. And, too, because he understood what Harry didn't: if Remus wanted to keep what he had, he had to take whatever they gave him. Andromeda could whisk visitation rights away from him like the dirty tablecloth at a dim sum restaurant. Hermione had the drive to wrestle them back some day, perhaps, but Teddy grew up more every moment Remus wasn't with him. If Remus had known, really known, when Dora first became pregnant, how much he would love that boy, he would have slaughtered every member of the Ministry rather than walk out on her.

And yet, here was life, testing the limits of his endurance. He had fought all his life to retain his humanity, what little dignity he could bear to possess in a world that had never meant for him to have a place in it. He had fled the nascent terror of his unborn son because he was afraid his lack of humanity had tainted his own child, and life had shown him no mercy for that. What he'd once wanted to sow, he had reaped: once, he had turned his back on his son and tried to leave him; now he would never be able to, not at heart. But neither was he able to have him.

That, Remus thought, was his true penitence.

* * *

_Three Days_

Remus took the _Daily Prophet_ so he could keep abreast of what stupid things were being said of his closest friends. He also made sure the papers were hidden when Harry came over so that all of his glass and porcelain objects wouldn't shatter.

Monday's paper came with a photograph of Harry standing in the garland-and-paperchain-strewn door of Weasley's Wizard Wheezes, glaring into the crowd with his hair sticking up in a way James would've envied like mad. According to the accompanying "article"—gossip column, really—the photographer had lost his camera and his photos when Ginny lobbed from the first-storey window one of George's new inventions for Christmas: the Vengeful Pumpkin. In the submitted photograph (taken by Adie Arlington, a Slytherin third year), something fat and round came tumbling out of the window and exploded all over the reporter and his photographer, burying them in what looked like masses of pulp.

Laughing, Remus paged through the paper, thinking he might frame that one. He laughed even harder at the blinding orange, scarlet and gold advert flashing up at him from page five: 'Got That Family Dinner Coming Up? Always Wished You Could Give 'Em What's Coming To 'Em? This Christmas, You Can! Give the Gift of Revenge With Our New Vengeful Pumpkin – Just In Time For The Holiday You Need!'

He was lost in a rather pleasant daydream of sending some of his coworkers a batch of Vengeful Pumpkins for Christmas (anonymously, of course) when someone tapped on the window of frosted glass set into his front door. The glass glowed golden, signifying Harry. For a second he thought about stuffing the paper under the sofa cushions, but then he decided Harry needed a laugh as much as Remus did. Harry certainly needed to laugh more.

"Morning, Harry," he said to Harry's anorak, which he was pulling off his head as he staggered through the front door.

"Morning." Harry emerged, glasses and hair askew, and tossed his anorak over a tower of stacked books. It had taken Remus several weeks to break him of the habit of tidily hanging his coat on the rack by the door. It must have been a response ingrained by Lily's sister, Petunia.

One look at Harry's face had Remus thinking: _Danger, Remus Lupin, danger_. There were portents of a storm there. The trick with managing Harry's temper was not to head him off but to make him think you were on his side before he got going. You could calm him down more quickly that way, and fewer things got broken.

So he smiled and held out the paper. "Read this. First the photo on page one, then page five."

Harry took the _Prophet_ and scowled, which wasn't promising; but when Ginny's well-aimed pumpkin hit the reporter, he smiled.

"I've asked George if he can't make smaller versions of those pumpkins," he confided to Remus. "After yesterday I thought I might carry them around for the next time I ran into reporters I couldn't shake."

"I think it's an excellent idea. And I think if Teddy ever gets hold of them, we'll be living in pumpkin seeds for the rest of our lives."

Harry's smile dropped at that; the storm surged back in. "Andromeda's threatening not to let me visit anymore."

Remus made sure to keep his voice calm, but not too light. Harry hated not being taken seriously. "Is that what she said yesterday?"

"She sent me a mail." Harry folded the paper with worrying precision and set it delicately on the arm of his chair. Oh hell. "She says she doesn't want Teddy around people who lie."

Remus could feel his stomach sinking as if he'd swallowed a stone, but outwardly he kept his expression completely calm. But he was also angry—Andromeda couldn't have picked a worse way to put it.

"She's angry—" he started.

"I'm angry too!" Harry fired up. "And you should be, too! It's your kid she's keeping—"

"Yes, Harry," Remus said quietly, "Teddy is my son. I would appreciate it if you would let me regulate my own emotions on the matter."

Harry deflated much faster than Remus thought he would. "I know. I'm sorry. I'm even sorry—about yesterday. I mean, I wasn't then, but since then..." He trailed off, looking upset and halfway to miserable.

"I know," Remus said. "I also know why you did it. But I'm not the one you need to apologize to. If you're going to soften Andromeda enough to win back the right to see Teddy."

"But I'm not sorry," Harry said indignantly. "Not to her, I mean. She never lets you take him out, she just—"

"And she isn't likely to again now," Remus said, even more gently.

Harry stared at him, and then looked absolutely shamefaced. "That didn't occur to me."

"I know." Remus struggled not to laugh, even though it wasn't funny. Except in a way, it was. It reminded him of James and Sirius, bungling human relations so spectacularly because they didn't quite understand how people ticked. "You inherited your lack of thinking, or even looking before you leap, the same way Teddy got a heap of trouble-making."

"I'll tell her I'm sorry," Harry said, resolution in every line of his face.

Remus wasn't sure how to express approval of that idea without sounding condescending.

"That will do a lot of good," he said, although privately he was unsure. Andromeda had never cared for Remus' choice of godfather. And since the dawn of the custody battle, Remus had sensed her growing resentment. She believed he was using Harry, Hermione and the Weasleys to gang up on her.

"But you also need to understand..." He picked at a loose thread on the arm of his sofa. Harry looked curiously at him. "With Andromeda... it's not simply a case of... anything simple, really. She lost her husband and her daughter within a few months of one another. If I lost Teddy the way she..." But the despair conjured up by even the thought of that made him pull away from it, hard. He tried to keep his breathing even. "She's afraid to let him out of her sight. Literally afraid. It wasn't just that she _wanted_ to find him and couldn't, Harry, it was that she _couldn't."_

Harry was silent for a few moments, staring out the little frame of daylight that was Remus' window, over the puffs of steam rising from the Indian kitchen down below. Then he said quietly, "I think I get it."

Remus huffed a breath and tried to smile. "What a come down from Ginny's Vengeful Pumpkins. Five minutes ago, things were funny."

Harry smiled, but it looked reflexive.

"Do you always think about it?" he asked suddenly.

"Think about—?"

"About Teddy." Harry glanced around Remus' untidy sitting-room, with its stacks of books he hadn't organized yet, the bookshelves that were covered instead with plants brought inside for the winter, old cups of tea, photographs of friends he'd once had, and his son, whom he wanted so very much. "About... having him. You know?"

Yes. Remus did.

For a few moments he was silent, but Harry didn't press him, didn't even fidget. He only watched Remus, probably waiting as much to hear what he'd say as ardently as he would had if he'd asked his own father that question. If he'd been able to. Because that's what it always came down to, didn't it?

"Dora once told me how you hold a morph," Remus said quietly. "It's like twirling a pencil while you're walking. You have to concentrate to keep the morph, but you can't go around only thinking about your morph or you'll never get anything done, so you have to learn to keep it in the back of your mind. She said the more you change from your natural form, the harder it is to keep, the more concentration you have to pull away from other things to do it.

"If all I did was think about Teddy, I would never get anything done. But I am never... not thinking of him."

Harry just kept looking at him, for long moments.

"You're a good dad," he said. "One day Andromeda's going to figure out he's really lucky to have you, and then she won't try to keep you apart."

Remus felt as if this confidence had stolen his voice.

It was the Ministry that saved him. The flames in the hearth flared higher, and a sheet of slightly singed violet paper shot out of the fire and toward him like an osprey after a fish on the sea. He caught the note before it could attack his eyes and folded it open:

EMERGENCY AT WORK GET, YOUR ARSE IN, NOW

From the shores of profound emotion to everyday stupidity inside of two seconds.

Harry, the dear, nosy boy, was reading over his shoulder. "So that's the sort of official statement sent to Ministry employees. I'd wondered."

"That will be Cauther," Remus said. "He thinks he has it in for me." He Accio'd his coat and satchel, sending the note to oblivion with a snap of his fingers.

"Thinks he does?"

"Oh, he definitely thinks he does. I just don't care." He smiled, half to himself, half to Harry, who grinned back.

He followed Remus out the door onto the concrete stoop, puddles with rain dripping from the drainpipe, where faint traces of petrol, turmeric and curry spices hung on the cold air. Upstairs' Christmas tree had been charmed to sing carols; Remus could hear it belting out 'Good King Wenceslas' in a thrumming baritone.

"So"—Harry tugged his glasses straightish again—"you're off to work, and I'm off to grovel my forgiveness at Andromeda's feet."

"Good luck." Remus thought of his son, like always. "Tell him—"

"I'll tell him you miss him." Harry smiled at him. He was as tall as James had been, and the smile was his, just as much as it was Lily's, and Harry's, too.

"Always," Remus said, as Harry winked out of sight. A moment later, Remus followed, crossing through space and time.

#

Remus stepped out of the lift, brushing fluttering notes out of his hair, into a ward tinted with smoke. The memory of George's shop flashed to the front of his mind, but this wasn't the kind of haze that came from magic backfiring into the faces of the unsuspecting; it was rich and spicy, like the best kind of tobacco lit with abandon. The back of his throat tickled.

 _Meeting of all the Heads,_ he thought. They were men of a certain age and stamp who liked to sit in one another's offices with the doors open and hold intense yet genial conversations, smoking and making their direct inferiors feel left out.

He was surprised they could feel so mellow at this time of year. Remus had only been in the Department of Magical Accidents & Catastrophes for half a year, but the holiday furor had been a subject of complaint and dreary anticipation since August, at least. Once Advent set in, theirs became the busiest Department, all the way to the other side of New Years. They were the only employees of the Ministry outside of MLE who didn't take their Christmas holidays until March.

He headed down a corridor carpeted as richly as the politicians' wing, because Heads were always excellent politicians. He knew Cauther would complain no matter what, but someone else—someone likeable—might be inconvenienced if Remus dawdled.

A hand sneaked out of an open office door as he passed and latched onto his sleeve.

"Good morning, Ms. Grey," Remus said; this was one of the few of his colleagues who didn't take every opportunity to snub him for growing a tail once or twice a month. In fact, he would go so far as to say Campanula Grey actively liked him.

"Meeting of the Heads," she said, nodding toward the spot on the hall where the smoke seemed to hang thickest. "But I suppose you guessed that when you found yourself unable to breathe properly?"

"I did wonder," Remus admitted. "I would've thought any smoke at this time of year came from something confiscated from an overly energetic twelve-year-old."

"Oh, they smoke when they're agitated. And when they're smug, or annoyed, or up for promotion. This time, though, it's agitation. I guess it hasn't got round to Muggle-Worthy Excuses?"

"No, but I just got in not five minutes ago." Did this have to do with Cauther's caustic note?

"They may be talking about it, or they may not. There's a brouhaha brewing. Literally," she said. "We've got a potion backfiring all over the country. Minor enough stuff for now—people's heads turned backwards, their mouths filling with mud—but it's hitting whole areas like mad. They've just moved the case's priority from Mildly Catastrophic to Significantly, which makes it mine, now." Then she fixed him with a piercing look, like a low-level Dumbledore scan. "I want to get you on the team."

Grey had been attempting to promote Remus into her department since October, but she was always stymied. Her superiors were the sort of men to resent someone's having a tail, whether part-time or otherwise. They had grown up in a world where you didn't even make eye contact with werewolves unless it was to aim for spitting.

"I hope I won't have to fake Potions' expertise," he said, smiling. "I'm one of the worst you'd find on the floor."

"Maybe so," she said, "but it'd be an opportunity to move up like none you've ever seen. You can't tell me making excuses to a bunch of confounded Muggles is what you'd like to be doing?"

Muggle-Worthy Excuses wasn't the job Remus would have chosen, but he was content enough there. It had the main recommendation of being utterly undangerous and eternally stable; two shining points to bring to a future that, God (or Hermione) willing, might one day include his son in his own home.

"Well, God willing," he said, echoing his own thoughts.

"Me willing," she said, echoing them too, in a way. "God's got nothing to do with it. Off to work with you now, boy."

"Amusing," he replied, since she was a good two years younger than him and looked a decent ten on top of that. But it was nice to be teased again. Harry and the others were still re-learning how. So was he.

Much of Remus' work took place behind a desk, where he reviewed reports on catastrophic disasters caused by daft or inexperienced wizards and witches, and which had become so obvious that even Muggles noticed. Remus slogged through reports and composed excuses for his colleagues to foist on the right people. Whether it was a potential that had flourished with the Marauders or just a survival trait they'd given him, he didn't know, but verbal swindling had turned out to be one of his talents.

It reminded him an awful lot of people he missed, but in a way he appreciated. Sometimes you had so many memories, you needed someone or something else to pull them out of you.

His section of the Department did not have real windows and the privacy to smoke or drink as one pleased; it was open, catacombed with many cubicles. The cubicles ranged in size depending on one's importance, so Remus worked in a double with just enough room for two people to sit elbow-to-elbow as long as they didn't perform any significant stretches. They also had to walk past their supervisors' desks to get a view of the enchanted windows, which today were focused on Easter Island; mountains carving out of the sea, a line of stone sentinels with their backs to the water, facing up the flat, green shore. But he and his cubicle-mate did get name plates on either side of the cubicle: R. Lupin and L. Cringe. Or maybe one day they would. Right now they had handwritten note cards.

"Morning, Lancelot," Remus said, trying to suppress the inclination to pity anyone for having a name even more bizarre than 'Remus Lupin.'

Lancelot Cringe was a little older than Dora would have been, had she lived. Remus had no idea what he'd done to get shafted into a cubicle with a werewolf. He was very handsome and permanently anxious-looking. No one ever seemed to notice the expression on his face, however, since they were always too busy being stunned by his beauty.

"Remus—good morning," Lancelot said nervously. He was sitting in a pile of papers of varying shades of purple: an avalanche of department memos. The Muggle-worthy Excuse Department sent missives on a spectrum of purple-tinted papers: lilac for Indifferent Business, and all the way to neon violet for Screamingly Important.

"What are all these?" Remus picked one out of the air as it made a dive for Lancelot's face. It rudely read, with Cauther's cruel disregard for the comma, EXCUSES READY IN BUDLEIGH BABBINGTON ASAP THAT, MEANS NOW.

"It's this potion, this business with the potion—haven't you heard?" Lancelot said, almost wringing his hands.

"I heard the Heads are puffing increasingly over it."

"Yes, it's a sing-dinger." He tried to stuff some of the notes into the wastepaper basket, while they scrabbled up his arms, all trying to get to his eyes to be read.

"You mean a humdinger?" Remus asked, amused.

"Sorry; probably. Anyway, they're getting us ready to go out in the field, they need us all over, we're being hit from the Cotswalds to Glasgow. Didn't they send you the notification this morning, all hands to—"

"I sent him a note some time ago. Nice of you to finally dawdle in, Lupin."

Remus had long suspected that Will Cauther thought he was both handsome and clever, with a talent for being scathing. Remus had never had the heart to tell the poor boy that he'd spent varying parts of his life around two men who were both vastly more clever; one even more handsome, with the other possessing powers of invective that would have shriveled his ego like a an inter-department memo.

But they were gone, of course, and Remus was left with Will Cauther. At least he was actually handsome. Not Remus' type—he preferred dark men and women by far—but Cauther was as undeniably good-looking as he was rude.

"Oh, yes, I got it," Remus said vaguely. "It was wonderfully communicative."

Cauther gave him a look of disgust. It had nothing on looks of disgust Remus had been treated to in the past. Those had almost been works of art.

"We're all going out to take care of this mess," Cauther said, as if Remus were the cause of the mess. "You'll stay here and handle whatever needs handling while we're gone."

That was a nasty surprise, but it didn't exactly surprise Remus. "Of course. I'm sure I'll enjoy myself."

"Cringe, come on," Cauther said.

Lancelot went red. "But—but I think I should stay, too—"

"Are you the boss? No, that's right, it's me. Leave that"—his next look of disgust was for the forest of memos trying to dive-bomb Lancelot's curly black hair—"for Lupin to sort out and hurry up. These bloody heads aren't going to twist themselves forward."

"Sorry," Lancelot whispered to Remus, anguished, as he tried to push the fluttering memos at him.

"It isn't anything you need to apologize for," Remus said firmly, sweeping the memos with a freezing charm. They locked into place in the air as if caught in iced-over molasses.

"Why didn't I think of that?" Lancelot asked, with an admiring look.

"Cringe!" barked Cauther, looking furious. Lancelot sighed and trudged out of the cubicle and into the deluge of workers heading for the lifts.

"Too bad, Loopin," crooned Zilpah Smith as she sashayed past. She was Cauther's girlfriend, and she thought herself particularly witty whenever she made fun of Remus for—well, anything really. She knew as much about wit as Cauther did about commas.

For all his talk of speed and its essence, Cauther lingered to give Remus one last dirty look. Then he followed his girlfriend off. Good riddance to bad rubbish, Remus thought, rolling his eyes.

Sometimes he couldn't quite believe he had survived two wars and ended up here.


	3. Chapter 3

"So what does this potion do?" Hermione asked curiously. "Thank you, Ginny," she added, accepting a huge platter of potatoes.

"You don't want to know," Remus said. He had spent the entire day from eight to five flipping through reports on the effects of the potion. Had he been anyone else, he'd have been put off his lunch, dinner, and meals for the rest of the week. "I would gladly burden you all with the details before the _Prophet_ bungles them sensationally tomorrow morning, but I'm hungry, and I don't wish for Molly to throw me out so all I'll have to eat are Arthur's spark plugs out in the shed."

"I don't wish you to eat my spark plugs either," Arthur said, grinning. Molly muttered something like 'wish they'd eat themselves,' but she only sent the gravy boat circling around the table, streaming liquid spices onto everyone's chicken.

"Dad's awfully attached to those spark plugs," Ginny said from the other side of Harry. "You shouldn't joke about them, they're more dear to him than you are, Remus."

"Hey now," Arthur protested. "You're talking to the man who saved my hide last year from that shrinking looking-glass."

"One of my more heroic moments," Remus said gravely. His first post-battle Ministry job flitted onto the surface of his memories. He had enjoyed the Misuse of Muggle Artifacts; more than he did his current job. But Arthur had worked so hard getting him the promotion to Magical Accidents & Catastrophes that he hadn't had the heart not to take it.

"No way," Ginny said, "I think coming back from the dead is way more heroic."

"Technically, that was out of Remus' control," Percy said, "and therefore can't be counted a heroic act, since it lacked agency."

"Oh, stuff it, Perce," said Ron, Ginny and George; Ginny flicked a green onion at him. It stuck to his right lens.

"I didn't mean Remus wasn't heroic," Percy snapped, "of course he is. I just meant the act—"

"Potatoes, Perce?" George raised a spoon dripping with gravied potatoes, taking aim.

Remus very badly wanted to laugh, but he didn't want to offend Percy, so he called down the table to Molly, "How are Bill and Fleur?"

This was a good choice; Molly beamed at him so brightly, the lamps in all corners of the room seemed to dim. "Doing wonderfully. I saw Fleur just this morning—the baby's just started kicking, can you believe it? My first grandchild!"

"Ees Fleur complaining of 'er feegure?" Ginny muttered, but quietly enough that Molly didn't seem to hear. Remus saw Hermione repressing a smirk, but he was repressing his own reaction, summoned by the memory of Dora saying, _Remus, he's moving, it's wild, come feel—_

The conversation turned to other channels. Remus felt a pang of guilt at not continuing to invite Molly's joyous reports of her first oncoming grandchild, but he found that he just couldn't bear to. When he tried to think of Fleur and how she must look now, all he saw were memories of Dora, her hair flickering through a rainbow of colors. _Do you think if I morph enough he'll be able to do it, too?_ And her laugh— _Not that I could stop if I wanted, he'll have to morph whether he wants to or not—_

Dinner broke up, and Molly shanghaied Hermione and Ginny into helping her with clean-up, a task neither of them appreciated as modern witches. But when Remus went to assist, Molly pointed her wand at him with a fond if unmistakable threat, and he retreated with his hands thrown up in mock-alarm he was almost too tired to fake. It had been a long, tedious day, full of petty slights and snubs, and now all he wanted was to curl up with his son in his room, watching his hair fluff down to the dark brown it always took when he slept. But it was a Monday.

"Ron," Harry said, "go help Hermione and your mum and Ginny clean up."

Ron stopped abusing a leg of chicken long enough to ask, "Why me?"

"Because Hermione will like it," Harry said, poking him between his shoulder blades.

Ron grunted but did not deny the truth of this. "Why not you?"

"I want to talk to Remus," Harry said, with a look at Ron that wasn't subtle; but Ron was about as subtle as James had ever been—which was to say, as subtle as a Vengeful Pumpkin.

"Oh." Sure enough, Ron's eyes widened a fraction. "Right."

Harry opened the back door, letting in the cold and the smell of rain on grass. One day, Remus wanted a house in the country, not a decrepit little flat hanging by its fingernails to the bustle of wizarding London.

"Harry, dear?" Molly called.

"Just going for a walk, Mrs. Weasley," Harry said, and dragged Remus outside to stand in a mud puddle.

"It's a lovely evening for it," Remus said. At least they were beneath the overhang of the back porch; the rain dribbled onto the tin roof, not their heads.

"I love the Weasleys," Harry said with complete sincerity. "But they're not the family to have... private conversations in. If you're not laughing, they want to come see why, you know?"

This was a fairly accurate assessment.

"Arthur's shed?" Remus said. "Spark plugs don't eavesdrop. Unless Arthur's done something to them."

He conjured an umbrella, and they navigated the patchy mud down the drive to Arthur's beloved Muggle Parts shed. Arthur had found a brace of patio furniture somewhere—plastic weave covered in flamingos—and they sat on that after a few cautious reinforcement charms of Remus'.

"So," Harry said, sounding subdued, "I talked to Andromeda."

If it had gone as bad as Remus had feared it would, Harry probably would've stormed Accidents & Catastrophes, sparks of magic flying off his hair. But he just looked... sad.

"How did it go?" Remus asked him gently.

"It was a nightmare," Harry said, quite serious. "At first she didn't want to let me in—she wouldn't even open the screen door the whole time, and just to get her to stand there I had to yell through the door—she just slammed it in my face when she saw it was me—that I was sorry and I hadn't meant to hurt her and all."

Lest the wrong word might tip the scales of Harry's sadness to anger, Remus only nodded and waited for him to continue.

"Then I said it was okay if she didn't want me seeing Teddy—that I understood, I mean—but he was my godson and I cared about what happened to him. I asked if she wouldn't give my days of seeing him to you, since you were his dad and it was loads more important."

Remus didn't dare speak. He wanted to touch Harry's shoulder, but he wanted to hear everything, and Harry had retreated into a place that Remus called the 'horizon of memory,' where you barely seemed to remember other people were with you.

"But she didn't say anything," Harry said. "And that's... that's when it turned into a nightmare, because I... kind of lost it." He looked even sadder than ever as he said that. "Not just my temper, but... you know how when you say things and you don't want to say them, but you can't make yourself stop?"

_Oh hell._

"I asked her if she thought Teddy would be okay with it, when he grew up more and figured out what was going on, or if he'd... hate her for it. And then I said..." Harry looked down at his hands, folded tightly over his knees. "If she were the mum, and someone had tried to take Tonks away from her, how she'd feel?"

"Oh Harry," Remus said, feeling incredibly sad.

"And then she shot me off the porch and out of the yard. Pretty good spell, too." But his voice remained as listless as when he'd started.

"I meant it all, too," he said quietly. "All of it. I honestly think she's wrong, what she's doing. But the look on her face when I said it..."

He trailed off, and neither of them spoke for a while. Remus couldn't even find it within himself to blame Harry, to become angry with him; all he felt was a sense of deep, almost overwhelming sorrow and compassion. He had known from the first that Harry looked at Teddy and saw himself refracted. Remus could no more be angry with Harry than with Andromeda.

Remus had long ago understood what many people never did: that sometimes, there was no one to blame, not even yourself. Sometimes other people created sorrow with intent; but much of it simply flourished across life, without reason or retribution.

"We'll give her some time," he said to Harry. "And then I'll talk to her. It wouldn't be a good idea just now."

"Yeah," Harry said quietly. "I know. I'm sorry. I just—it was like the time I said... to you..." He looked ashamed.

"And that hurt. It was even a torment. But I needed it... I needed to hear it. Self-knowledge doesn't come from everything being light and happy and going your way. It comes from pain. I don't know why that is"—he smiled slightly, but Harry wasn't looking at him—"but it's the truth."

"Well, if it wakes her up to what she's doing, it'll be worth it." Harry didn't even smile. "If it gets your son to you." He sighed, dropped his head into his linked hands. "I never thought this was what'd happen if I defeated Voldemort, you know? I thought—I thought we'd all be happy. I thought all this unfair—bullshit would be over. Instead kids have to grow up without their parents because the law says it's okay."

This hurt little speech, with its unspoken questions, reminded Remus that even though Harry had lived through things many people never would, things that had aged him beyond his age, he was still a very young man.

"So many people are far better off now than they would have been," Remus said. "Than they were two years ago. You can't forget that, Harry."

"But it's still not right!" Harry glared, but not at Remus. "There's still so much that's wrong! It shouldn't be that way!"

As the thrum of the rain on the tin roof filled the silence, Remus realized he was a bit of an idiot. No one had ever bothered to sit down and explain to Harry what had really happened during the War. He'd been in hiding—fighting Death Eaters, fighting Voldemort, his nemesis, hunting him directly; there had been Dark magic, torture, murders and souls split apart. That was what the War had been to him.

But that wasn't all it had been.

"Harry... Everything that led to the war... you realize it wasn't just Voldemort?"

"What?" Harry asked, almost impatiently.

"Voldemort did not come in and Imperio everyone into behaving as they did. Yes, he controlled people—with magic—but not just by magic. And he didn't have them only stealing information and torturing his enemies. He left most people to live their lives, and Harry, they did. They went on as they'd gone on before. And now that Voldemort is gone, they are going on as they did when he was alive, which is how they went on when he wasn't. The world has never been divided into the Order of the Phoenix and Death Eaters. Death Eaters and all of us who fought them—we were people who chose to walk away from what was regular and fight. But most people... did not, Harry. They never do."

Harry looked even more confused. "I don't understand."

Remus wondered if he could make Harry understand without breaking his heart.

"You gave the people a gift. The greatest gift anyone can give another person—you gave them their freedom. You gave them the right to live their lives as they like. And... it is one of people's failings, perhaps of the whole race, that a reprieve like that does not make them better or wiser or more loving than they were before."

Harry stared at him. "Are you saying that people have the right to be—bigots? To—be cruel to other people, just because?"

"I am saying that's the right you've given them, Harry, because it was the right thing to do."

"But then what did we fight for?" Harry honestly looked almost anguished. "Bigotry and—and hatred, and—being cruel to people just for being something they shouldn't even have to help—that's why we fought!"

"Yes, Harry. You fought to make the world a better place. You're still fighting for that. But that doesn't happen with the death of a single tyrant. The force of the world is always greater than that. Please don't think everything you did—"

"Everything we did," Harry said fiercely.

"What we all did," Remus said gently. "Please don't think there was no point to it. It meant everything for the future. But it hasn't done everything. Voldemort tried a method of change that will never truly work, because people cannot be controlled forever. They have their own minds. And you have to work to change their minds, or real change will never happen. That's... why we keep trying. Why we have to."

Harry looked at him almost helplessly. "And it's always like that, is that what you're saying?"

Remus wondered if his smile were as tired as he felt. "It's human nature, Harry. "

_**POTION SENSATION SWEEPING THE NATION** _

**December 14, 1999**

Yesterday the magical world found itself in the ghastly grip of a potion the likes of which no one can remember seeing before, writes RITA SKEETER, INVESTIGATIVE REPORTER. _And yet such a claim does not fully capture the malicious mania of this befuddling brew._

_The corridors of St. Mungo's teemed into the wee hours of the morning as Healers fought to combat the effects of this most poisonous of potions. At least two thousand of our brave citizens had their heads twisted backward; many of them even had their mouths filled with mud. Like beseeching mimes, they appealed to the ingenuity of St. Mungo's heroic Healers, who fought through day and into the night to neutralize the nastiness of this chaotic Christmas gift to our magical world._

_Eager to appropriate any and all answers, your reporter tirelessly toiled through the tunnels of St. Mungo's and the Magical Ministry, incisively interviewing the Healers and Officials nominally in charge. However, facts were scant and slim, rather like the brains behind them._

_Who has done this? How have they done it? And why? Your resourceful reporter wished to know, but no one appeared prepared to answer. What will it take to make our libelous law enforcers put noses to the grindstone, roll back the sleeves, and get on the case of this mysterious marauder of our holiday peace?_

* * *

_Two Days_

Tuesday dawned with a drizzling grey sky. Remus wrapped himself in the decent coat he could now afford and Apparated through the cold to work. Apparition took you across space, not through it; although it made you feel compressed, it wasn't as if you were really passing through a tube. Apparating in the winter always left him feeling as if he'd just streaked a thousand miles an hour through an ice storm.

When he stepped into the halls of the Ministry, brushing ice crystals out of his hair, he found every hall buzzing with talk of the poisonings that were sweeping the magical nation like a scythe to thresh. Copies of the _Daily Prophet_ waved under his nose again and again, and photographs of Rita Skeeter thrusting her self-writing quill under the noses of harassed wizards in official-looking robes flickered on every front page.

For all her dreadful alliteration, Rita Skeeter had unfortunately got one thing right: no one knew what was going on. The official word was "All possible leads are being investigated"—always a bad sign.

Skeeter had actually underestimated numbers: yesterday five thousand people's heads had turned backwards, and a thousand of those had also found their mouths filled with wet, stinking mud that wouldn't stop running no matter what they tried. It had even happened within the halls of the Ministry; and just outside of Canterbury, an entire field team of ten from Accidents & Catastrophes had whipped a group of Muggles into a frenzy when their heads suddenly rotated backwards to the sound of popping bones and three of their mouths begun dribbling mud.

All of the victim's systems bore traces of an unidentified potion; St. Mungo's had identified that much from the first few victims. But no one yet knew how it had been imbibed or where it had come from. Five thousand victims made the mystery as wide and deep as a PR nightmare.

All Remus could think was, _Thank God no one's died._ All they'd had so far were a few sprained tendons and twelve people having allergic reactions to traces of zinc in to the mud. The best Potions' experts in the country were shut up in the hospital creating an antidote.

Or trying to.

Remus found himself hoping the poisoner just had a sick sense of humor. Or a real loathing for Christmas.

He hauled himself into the office at seven and was left once again on the emptied third floor in the company of a few elderly female employees who had lobbied to be "too old" for field work. They were only about five years older than himself. One of them called him "dear" and another always looked away whenever he walked by her.

When the next batch of reports (the size of a scaled-down Eiffel tower) popped into his inbox, he almost stopped eating the chicken-and-gravy sandwich Molly had sent him.

 _Eyes turned back in their skulls_ , the top report read. _No casualties yet._

A very, very nasty sense of humor.

He was still putting out fires—in some cases literally, where important memos, abandoned by people pulled into the field, had retaliated against neglect—at half past six, when Cauther and a large batch of field-workers trudged in. Their faces were weighted with exhaustion, half of them were covered in mud, and more than a few looked grey. Remus and the lady who called him "dear" started pouring coffee for them without a word. A sickly Lancelot gave Remus a weak smile as he took a cup.

"Glad to see you're still here pulling your weight, Lupin," Cauther said. He looked as if someone had vomited mud all over his robes. Remus felt enormously petty and malicious at the tint of pleasure he got from the thought of someone throwing up on Cauther. Someone had suffered for that to happen. "Why don't you get off your coffee break and back to work?"

 _Oh, I'm pulling a lot, you stuck-up brat_ , Remus thought. He turned to go without a word, and almost walked into a woman dressed in robes like Indian silk handkerchiefs who was just coming in through the door to the break room. Felicity Meadowes—no, Davies. She'd been in Remus' year at Hogwarts, and then she had gone through three inadvisable husbands.

"Why's my desk got scorch marks?" she asked, looking at Remus, who remembered it well. Before he could say anything, however—

"Ask Lupin," Cauther said. "He's the one who's supposed to have been taking care of things while we've all been out doing the heavy lifting."

"I don't actually recall you telling me to answer mail from people's husbands," Remus said with the kind of politeness that almost looped back around to an insult. Did someone titter? Couldn't have.

"Ex-husbands," said Felicity. "Next time you see a note from Ethan, set it on fire, would you, Lupin? I'd be very pleased."

"And we all know how you'd show it," Zilpah Smith said, a sneer curling her mouth. She waited a beat, as Felicity turned to her with a cool stare. "Buy him a decent jumper from Oxfam. He needs one."

Remus barely refrained from rolling his eyes. Were they thirteen?

"Don't be rude," Lancelot said suddenly, giving Zilpah a look of dislike.

"Yes," Felicity purred. "Listen to Lotta-Lance, Zill. At least, I assume the boy's got a lot of—"

"Was I the only one who attended that sexual harassment seminar?" Remus wondered aloud, over the sound of shrill giggles from a few female employees and the almost-audible sizzle of Lancelot's blush.

"Lupin, didn't I tell you to get back to work?" Cauther snapped.

 _Believe me, I will go gladly._ Remus stepped around a smirking Felicity and left the break room.

He heard a shuffle behind him. Lancelot was following him, looking uncharacteristically angry. From the door to the break-room, Cauther was staring daggers at both their backs.

Remus turned his eyes forward, and as he did he caught sight of a face he had never thought he'd see again—black eyes, lank hair, a nose that stood out in the memory—

Remus stopped dead—

It was only a stupid poster. Someone had found a shot of Snape—it looked like the photograph from the _Prophet_ back in '97, when Voldemort had made him Headmaster—blown it up, and tacked it to the wall of their cubicle with a push-pin through the middle of his forehead.

"What is it?" Lancelot asked, stopping at his elbow. "Is that Snape?" he asked curiously.

"Yeah." Gregory Samson, owner of the cubicle, sighed and poked his wand at it. Photograph-Snape gave him a look of utter disdain, so delicately rendered it was an art, even in black-and-white. Of course, Snape had always looked like an old Muggle film capture. "I was sorting through some old files, hunting for possible suspects for all this cack, and there he was... I thought, Merlin, if only the stupid son of a bitch were still alive, we wouldn't have to look beyond the end of his nose, he'd've done this."

Remus' eyes were still full of Snape's monochromatic face, which was looking at him now, along the curve of his cheekbones. The picture didn't manage to capture the way his eyes would sometimes glitter. He heard himself say, "Clearly you'd have been wrong, seeing as he's dead and this is going on anyway."

Samson blinked; a second later, his confusion transformed to dislike. "Right, Lupin," he said, now attempting his own brand of scathing, "because you've been at this job so long, you've got such a great prestige—sharing a cubicle with the man who everyone knows—"

"Remus, I think we should go," Lancelot said loudly and firmly, taking Remus by the arm.

"Yes, I think we're wasting our time here," Remus said.

Samson's eyes flashed; he started to push up from his chair, but he stopped when an almost-menacing voice at Remus' back said:

"Lupin, I thought I told you to get to work."

Remus didn't even know why he did it. He had endured far worse than the petty sniping of people whose emotional development had stymied in childhood. He'd been bossed around by bigger people; pettier ones, even. But when he turned and saw Cauther glaring at him, with Zilpah Smith smirking over his shoulder, he found himself saying: "Then why don't you let me get to work, Mr. Cauther, and find something to do with yourself other than following me about?"

Cauther and Smith blinked. Lancelot let out a muffled groan. At the door to the break- room, Felicity Meadowes-Whatever gave him a thumbs-up.

"What did you say to me?" Cauther said.

"I've forgotten the exact words," Remus said, "but I rather think I was mocking you."

He was going to get so very sacked. He was being a complete arse, even, and he didn't even care about any of it.

"You shabby werewolf—"

Smith clamped her hand on his arm. Remus had no idea why she would, or why her eyes had suddenly grown wide and Felicity had disappeared into the break-room, but he should have guessed.

"This doesn't look like the current rate of productivity we are advertising to the _Prophet_ ," said the voice Campanula Grey from behind Remus. "However much they fail to report it. We seem to be working a lot harder on trying to get the public to believe we're being productive than we're actually getting work done. Smith, Cauther, Cringe—everyone who's listening to me and pretending not to, and that includes you, Samson—all of you, get back to your duties. Lupin."

He'd been expecting it.

"You come with me."

"Yes, ma'am," Remus said. When he turned toward her, he found her face cool, businesslike, remote. Her eyes skimmed past him and cut over his shoulder.

"Yes, Cauther?"

"Madam Grey," he said tersely, "I was just about to write up Lupin for insubordination."

"That was when you thought you were still his supervisor. Times have changed, Cauther. Lupin's on my team now."

Lupin wanted to be above the pettiness of turning to look at Cauther's face, but the flesh was weak. He turned, and it was worth it.

But Cauther, for all his pin-headed malice, was made of sterner stuff than Remus had thought. "Yes, ma'am," he managed, although it sounded rather garroted. "I won't take up any more of your time, then."

"Charming," Ms. Grey said. "This way, Lupin."

Remus trailed her through the cubicles to the halls with offices. He knew he had to tell her.

"Ms. Grey," he murmured, so as not to be heard by a passing employee carrying a smoking pot plant, "I should tell you he had reason to write me up."

"I know. My ears work, Lupin. Are you worried about getting yourself a demerit on your file on the same day I finally get you promoted?"

He wasn't sure whether to laugh or blush. Well, he knew he ought to blush and feel ashamed; he just wasn't sure he'd yet come down from whatever fit had taken him in the corridor. Maybe it was all the teenaged pettiness crackling through the air in the break-room, or perhaps Snape's spirit had been trapped in that poster on Samson's wall. It certainly wasn't lining the portrait Minerva had tried to hang in the Headmaster's office, and which had never moved. Yes, that was it; Remus had been possessed by the snark of Severus Snape.

"That's about the size of it, ma'am," he said.

"If you were anyone else, I'd've left you with Cauther," she said,. "But you're lucky I'm playing favorites: I like you and I can't stand him."

He thought they were headed to her office, but she walked straight past it, further down the net of corridors, where the traces of tobacco and spices saturated the air and the offices swelled with importance. Remus read the gleaming plaque on the wall outside the door they were approaching—GRIMERIUS WESTON—and blinked in surprise. Grimerius Weston was Head of Highly Catastrophic Incidents: practically the Head of the Heads.

Mr. Weston's female assistant sat behind a severely clean desk, attending to rigidly organized piles of paperwork. She frowned at them as they went past but didn't say anything, and a moment later Ms. Grey was knocking on the door to Weston's personal office.

"Enter," the man said, in a gravelly yet cultured voice.

Weston's office was luxurious, rich in colors of dark burgundy and mahogany and the scent of expensive pipe smoke. The windows showed a view of a river as it must look at that hour of the night, its pale stone buildings lit with sparkling lights in gold and red and green, reflected trembling on the water.

"Ah, Grey," Weston said, glancing idly up from an open folder on his desk. "You've found him. Excellent."

His tone was mild, unruffled, even polite. Remus had only seen Grimerius Weston from a distance, but his reputation for distant courtesy was regular to a man of his age and status. He was probably about ninety-five years old, wore suits of fine Italian cut, and reminded Remus of a more genteel Charlton Heston.

"Thank you, Campanula," Weston said, tipping his folder shut and sliding it into a drawer. "You can leave him with me. Report back in half an hour."

Ms. Grey looked surprised, but her training carried her through it. With one final glance at Remus, she left. He wondered if that had been a look to behave. Behave well.

Weston stood from his desk with a press of his long fingers. His expression as he regarded Remus was considering, but only mildly so. Remus gazed back, adopting a different sort of mildness. If anyone in this building thought they were going to intimidate him, they were talking out the back of their necks.

Weston went over to a side cabinet done in gleaming wood, with a forest scene inlaid beneath the lacquered surface. A stag in flight. Remus decided it was beautiful craftsmanship, and he didn't like it at all.

"Do you smoke?" Weston asked him, still in that mild, polite tone.

"Not generally," Remus said, matching Weston's tone.

"Have one."

Remus accepted the cigar, and then the chair Weston gestured him to.

Weston didn't speak at first. The thick, almost decadent silence was filled first by the sound of the cellophane unwrapping from his cigar. Then he lifted his wand and lit the end, a flare of orange that set the cigar streaming curls of blue-grey smoke to sink into their clothes and hair, maybe even their skin.

"You've been Campanula's pet project since October," Weston said, his words emerging from a thick cloud of decadent smoke. "She's been hounding all of us to let her take you on. She's a tenacious young lady... almost a force of nature."

 _But prejudice is its own force of nature_ , Remus thought. Just what he'd tried to tell Harry last night. Thankfully the mania that had seized him out in the hall seemed to have banked with the glowing ember at the end of Mr. Weston's cigar.

"I imagine I'm old enough to be your grandfather, so you'll forgive me for patronizing you," Weston said. "When I was a lad, you know, my grandfather, if he saw a known werewolf, would give him the hard end of his cane."

"Would that be the front end or the back end?" Remus asked with utmost politeness.

_Spoke too soon._

Weston looked at him a moment, and then he smiled. "And that's why I've finally let Campanula have her way." He pointed at Remus with the two long fingers holding his cigar, making the orange at its tip glow for a moment more brightly. "You're reckless."

Remus blinked. "I'm sorry? Sir?"

"You're reckless," Weston repeated, still in that mild tone. "You'd have to be, fighting first in one War, then the other. How far were you outnumbered in the 70s?"

The question darted through his heart with the speed and cut of an arrow. "More than I care to recount."

"Aye—and there you were, I bet, front lines, tackling as many Death Eaters as you could hit. Then the Second War comes, and in you jump again—with an Auror for a wife, and then a child on the way, and yet you still went on making those radio announcements—oh, aye," he smiled at Remus again, "everyone knew who you were. Now here you are... stable job... stable income... friends fighting like mad to get you a place in the new order of the world, and you want to throw it back in their faces. And you should. They're patronizing you, boy. They're giving you what they think you want, but they're not asking you. Neither is Campanula, she's the same as all the rest."

"And what are you giving me, sir?" Remus asked. He understood now that he wasn't in here as Remus, low-level clerk in the Muggle-Worthy Excuse Department, or Remus the Ministry employee, or even Remus the paper-perfect would-be father.

Weston smiled again, but none of the three smiles were kind.

"I'm giving you a chance to do something reckless. This curse isn't a little thing, it's not just a practical joke. Your friends in Muggle-Worthy Excuses don't have the whole idea yet, they're still stunned by what we've had them running around covering up, but they're only... thatch on a hole in an iron roof. We need to find out who's doing this to us, Lupin, and we don't have time for all the rule-book boys to pussyfoot around. You've been in two wars—I can't give you another one, and I won't even guess whether you'd want it or not. This is as close as I can bring you. I don't know you, except what's on paper, but I'm going to hazard my guess that a part of you must have enjoyed it, or you wouldn't have risked your life to die with all those other golden sons of bitches."

"Daughters of bitches, too," Remus said, with a razor's edge of politeness.

Weston's smile was its broadest yet. "Sons and daughters of bitches. Can I rely on you to give me what I need, Lupin?"

He didn't say _Give the people what they need._ In a way, Remus appreciated that. Because that's not what Grimerius Weston wanted. He wanted what _he_ needed.

And he wouldn't understand why people fought on the losing side in a war, because he would never do it if he lived a thousand years.

"I'll give the people what they need," Remus said.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: A not-gory but possibly disturbing death.

 

_One Day_

Remus was up before dawn to report to work. It was one of the few times when he was almost relieved to be a werewolf: his body temperature was permanently elevated, which made it not quite as dreadful to stagger out of bed in the dark of the winter night. Especially when the hot water heater had iced over.

He decided to forgo morning tea and see if the Ministry had anything hot and piping. By 5:45 in the morning, he was tucked into a debriefing office with a cup of powerhouse coffee and two roast beef sandwiches from last night, twelve other folks from the Highly and Significantly Catastrophic divisions, and uppers like Campanula Grey. Remus recognized most of these people by sight only; he'd never exchanged two words with them, being so greatly unimportant. He noted that quite a few people in the room seem startled to see him walk in—especially wearing Muggle clothes, as Grey had warned him to do last night. "In case we have to go out in the field," she said. "Which we will."

Weston sat at the head of the table with Grey on his right and another man on his left. They both looked fully abreast of everything. If it was an act, it was a good one. Weston's distant geniality of yesterday was gone; this morning he was curt and authoritative.

"Yesterday, our total number of victims in this business went up to ten thousand," he told them, his voice stark like slim drawings with charcoal on white paper. "We had more heads twisted backward, more vomiting mud, and at least three quarters of that number also had their eyes turned backward in their skulls. This is happening to almost everyone—Ministry employees, mothers, fathers, politicians—not so much to the kids, but we've had about a hundred so far. This has even been happening," he said, his voice altering subtly, "to prisoners in Azkaban."

The tension in the room netted itself more tightly together.

"Earlier this morning," Grey said, "the potion spilled over into the Muggle world. Specifically"—and here her eyes darted toward Weston, although Remus was sure they weren't supposed to—"the attack was perpetrated on the Muggle Prime Minister and certain select members of his cabinet."

Someone knocked over their coffee.

"All of the victims are aware of our world's existence, and it was in private," Grey continued, over the sound of liquid pattering onto the carpet. "A cabinet meeting closed, thankfully, to the Muggle press. We were contacted immediately, but as you may be aware, no antidote to this potion is yet forthcoming. We have made arrangements for a trustworthy Muggle in their Ministry to Polyjuice into the Minister until we can get things sorted out."

"This attack has now reached catastrophic proportions," Weston went on, his face and voice barren of warmth. "We cannot, I repeat, cannot allow our good relations with the Muggle world to be jeopardized by this sick bastard. If I have to tell you why, don't let me know, because you're too thick to be on this team and I don't have time to replace you. We have got to figure out who's doing this. Leave the hows to the Reversal Squad and focus on the whys. When we've got the motivation for this cack, we'll find who's done it."

"We'll start with any theories," Grey said. "Anything any of you has got." Did her gaze flicker to Remus? Well, he'd fallen asleep reading over everything they knew, which had boiled down to little more than demographics. But those had given him more than enough questions to begin with.

"Has anyone made a list of who's not being affected?" he asked.

"It's rather hard," said a woman wearing dark glasses, but she answered without malice, "since we're getting more reports all the time of the same kinds of symptoms rolling in."

"But the symptoms keep adding on, don't they?" he asked; she nodded. "First the head-twisting, then the mud, and yesterday the eyes. Do they know if he's—re-poisoning, or if it's a latent reaction?"

"No." A ginger-haired man shook his head gloomily. "They haven't got a clue. About any of it."

"I'm meeting with the country's most expert potioneers in half an hour," Grey told the table at large. "We'll see what they've got for us then."

"I suppose they still don't know how anyone's getting it, either?" Remus asked, but unless a drastic omission had occurred in the evidence Grey had given him, he knew the answer to that, anyway.

"Not a clue," said Weston.

"Right," Grey said. "Here's what everyone is doing. Gibson, Mullot, Darby—you'll be taking Azkaban, interviewing the guards. Klagg, Daniels, Rutherford, you're tackling St. Mungo's. Either find that quarantine or harass the Healers until you do. Tilford, Teague, O'Connor, you're going to be answering the heavy calls we've got coming in—find the most catastrophic site and keep on it until you get a worse one. You've got over a hundred unders to use; do it. And Lupin, you're with me. Let's see what the potioneers have for us."

Ms. Grey Apparated Remus to an auxiliary ward of St. Mungo's and whisked him into a matryoshka of labs. The air smelled like pine and Armor All and cooking mint julep. Through the haze Remus saw a very familiar rotund figure speaking to an important-looking Healer in lime-green robes trimmed with gold to nauseating effect. Whatever honors the gold trimming signified, it had no effect on Ms. Grey; she strode up to them and dismissed the Healer with a nod.

"Hello, Professor," Remus said.

Slughorn was bowing (as much as he could manage) and beaming at Ms. Grey, who wasn't returning his enthusiasm, but he turned at the sound of Remus' voice to blink at him.

"Ah, Mr. Tooting," he said, a civil enough smile curving beneath his mustache.

"Lupin," Remus corrected easily. Werewolves were condemned social pariahs from the moment they changed; Slughorn had never had any reason to cultivate memories of him. But Remus had been an abysmally mediocre Potions' student in any case, and neither of his parents had been important to wizards.

"Sorry, sorry." Slughorn shook his hand, though, even though Remus hadn't offered it. He looked at Ms. Grey and Remus in surprise. "Are you here about the potion then, son?"

"We both are," Grey said. "Lupin's on my team. We're here to be briefed on any progress you've made."

"Significantly Catastrophic branch then?" Slughorn said. "Well, well, well, that's splendid, son, splendid... unfortunately, my dear Ms. Grey, as much as it truly pains me to say it, we still haven't much to go on."

Her frown was deep yet unsurprised. "Can you at least tell me if it's a Dark potion?"

"Well, potions aren't Light or Dark, you must understand. The Dark Arts, as I'm sure you're aware," he smiled at her, "are not simply all classes of spells that injure; they are predicated with a human conduit, not a wand, as Light magic is—but that's their most basic difference. However, the methodology of potions is quite different—the ingredients themselves are the conduits, so their Lightness and Darkness is neither here nor there."

Remus had known that about the Dark Arts, but Ms. Grey's expression told him that not only did she not, she didn't quite understand what Slughorn was saying. She caught the gist, however, which was that the potion was not Dark, and moved on.

"What is it, then?"

"What is the name of the potion, or its components? Well, we can't tell you much of either one, I fear—we haven't been able to break down the individual components significantly enough to formulate an antidote—not yet, at any rate—"

"But aren't there—quicker ways?" Remus said. Something was tumbling around in his mind, something from long ago. "Some kind of stone—"

"A bezoar, yes." Slughorn nodded, looking surprised that Remus would remember even this much. To be honest, Remus was surprised himself. "Vastly helpful little items. Extremely rare, too—but in this case, not so helpful. They must be ingested quickly after the potion—or poison—enters the system—"

"But one be given to the Muggle Prime Minister?" she asked.

"I regret to say it seems unlikely," he said apologetically. "If it had been within five minutes of his ingesting the potion... but that is only supposing the potion's effects manifest immediately, and I cannot see how they would. For an effect of this magnitude, it is my belief the poisoner has worked in a time delay—an extremely difficult accomplishment."

Remus hoped Ms. Grey didn't hear the trace of admiration in Slughorn's voice.

"Why a time delay?" she asked, eyebrows knit.

"Well, so many people affected on such a grand scale—it is unlikely even a wizard could be in that many places at once—but primarily, it was the prisoners that made me think of it. In Azkaban, you know. Guards on scheduled rotations, aren't they? Place locked down, no one in and out..."

"Would it be very difficult to do? The metabolic delay, I mean," Remus asked.

"Not to someone who knows Potions, but on top of everything else—inventing this potion, administering it to this many victims, and leaving no traces—I don't mean to be indelicate, truly, but we are dealing with... well," he spread his hands, "with something of a genius, I must say."

"Inventing the potion," Ms. Grey repeated sharply. "You're certain it's a new invention?"

"Oh, aye," Slughorn said, nodding, "that's one reason it's so difficult to combat, y'see—I've never heard of anything like it, none of us has, and I've been a hard study of Potions for over eighty years!"

"And you've taught most of the nation's Potions students for eighty years," Ms. Grey said. "Since the 20s, I believe?"

"Well, give or take a decade or so," Slughorn said, now giving his mustache an almost nervous tug. "I retired, you know, back in the early 80s."

 _And then Snape took over_ , Remus thought.

"I can give you quite a solid account for a good sixty years," Slughorn said, still tugging on his mustache, as though he didn't want to say the next part. "But for the past twenty you'd need... well..." His nervous smile faded away. "Can't ask the poor boy, can you?" It wasn't really a question.

"If you could prepare a list of former students for those sixty years who are likely to have done this—" Ms. Grey began.

The door to the lab banged open and the red bow-tie wizard from the debriefing room tore in, looking sweaty and covered in soot.

"Madam Grey," he gasped. "They sent me—you have to come—"

Remus saw Ms. Grey's face grow delicately paler, but her expression remained resolute and her eyes sharp. He liked to think this was the kind of Auror Dora would have turned out to be.

"What is it, O'Connor?"

His face beneath the ash was white as the moon. "This time, someone's caught on fire."

* * *

 

 _Teddy_ , Remus thought, _when you grow up, I want you doing something serene and harmless, like music or sailing._

He, Grey and O'Connor left trails of inky Apparition cast-off as they made the steep climb toward the house, which rose like a jagged shadow on the slopes. Black smudges lingered in the air around its peaks.

"Wind's blown a lot of the smoke away," said O'Connor. The chill in Remus' chest, from Apparating across icy England, sharpened.

The front rooms were a bit turned over, but nothing looked scorched. A number of uniformed wizards and witches were rifling through the house, their voices rolling out of the kitchen, their steps groaning the low ceiling and the stairs. A loose shutter banged somewhere on the side of the house. Bang. Bang. Bang.

A redheaded woman met them in the parlor, her grimness on the verge of becoming panic. "We can't get her to come down off the cliff, she won't let us help her—"

"Slow down and explain," Ms. Grey said sternly. The firmness of her voice seemed to help the redhead get herself under control.

"Her name's Artemisia Dent," O'Connor said. "Her husband was the one who..." He didn't finish.

"When her husband... immolated," the redhead swallowed, "she ran out of the house to the edge of the cliff. She was hysterical—saying she was just going to jump and end it all. We've tried and tried to explain that if she let us get to her, we could stop the, the burning when it happened—"

"Can you?" asked Grey.

"There's no reason why we shouldn't be able to," said Red, but her face was the color of ash. "Damn it, we have to at least _try._ "

"Take me to her," said Grey.

O'Connor led them down a narrow hall, then out a back door and onto a terrace that looked across the edge of a cliff to the ocean. From the way the wind knifed over the terrace, Remus could tell it was a steep, straight drop.

The woman standing on the rocky slope at the cliff's edge had curly, tawny hair; it was all they could see of her from the house. She faced away from them, staring out to sea.

They all stopped at the edge of the terrace, which ended with a low stone wall. There were no steps to descend to the slope near her; one would have to climb. It probably wouldn't have been too treacherous were it not for the wind. Remus didn't know how Artemisia Dent was remaining upright. He could see her body swaying slightly, her hair tangling violently behind her.

"No children, thank Merlin," O'Connor said. "Just her and the husband."

Remus thought of Slughorn saying, " _You would also need a delay for the metabolic factor, and that is much more difficult_..."

This woman was standing like she was waiting...

Remus swung his legs over the low wall and dropped the half a meter or so to the shale of the slope.

"Lupin?" Grey said.

"I don't think you should—" said Red.

He didn't answer, but picked his way down the stones toward Artemisia Dent, who still had not turned around.

When he was about three meters from her, she curved her arms slowly out from her side, elbows bent like a ballerina.

"Artemisia?" he called into the wind. She didn't turn. "Artemisia, can you come away from the edge?"

She didn't move, but she didn't jump. He increased his pace, catching himself on the jutting rocks when his feet slid, but because of where she stood, he had to approach her from the side. He couldn't tackle her from behind; he'd send them both off the cliff.

He could see her face now. It was so blank it was almost tranquil. There were tear tracks on her face, and pieces of her hair stuck to her cheeks.

"Artemisia?" He was less than a meter away now.

She turned her face halfway toward his, but he didn't think her eyes saw him. They stared straight through him, as if he were made of air.

"It's peaceful out here," she said. Her words were almost lost to the wind. "I wanted it to be peaceful."

Remus smelled the scent of something burning...

She bent her knees, curving her arms out straight from her body, and jumped.

He lunged toward her in the split second before she jumped. He was almost surprised when the ground fell away beneath him. She'd leapt out into empty space and he'd followed... and there was the cut of the wind over the winter sea as they fell... the heat of the fire striking across his hands, his face...

And then the plunging cold of the water...

And then nothing.

Nothing...

Nothing...

...and then the light.

* * *

 

Remus supposed he was lucky—again—that it took a strong, raging fire or silver to kill a werewolf for good.

 _Absurdly... lucky_ , he managed to think as he dragged himself up the shore. It was covered in small rocks, and they bit at his hands. Not literally. They weren't magic rocks. But they still hurt.

Or maybe it was everything that was hurting. Even his tendons felt battered.

 _Like... I was pum... mulled by the... sea_. He coughed up more water and something slimy that seemed to take forever to draw itself out of his throat. He retched. Maybe he'd drowned. If he hadn't, he didn't ever want to. Every moment he lay half-conscious on this beach was a moment too long.

He dropped onto his back. His eyes ached. The hard, grey sky filled the world above him, the sea overtook the horizon.

He drifted away on the husking sound of the surf against the shore.

* * *

 

_Now_

He awoke blinking into the dark.

At first he thought night had fallen on the beach. But the surface beneath him was soft, not made of biting rocks, and the air was marginally less cold. His skin was also dry, and though his clothes felt clammy, especially in the creases at his elbows, knees, and hips, he had either been asleep for a long time or someone had dried him off.

He would have sat up, except something was restraining him to the bed. He peered down at himself, but he couldn't see—well, anything. And he couldn't feel anything other than a faint pressure. A spell, then. Why would he be spelled to a bed? Had the full moon come? No... if he'd transformed, he wouldn't still be wearing the same Muggle clothes. And none of his friends would have left him bound once he changed back, anyway... not unless something had happened to them...

The war had trained him not to draw attention to himself immediately when the situation turned out of his control. First he needed to find out where he was. Then he could start on the more exciting bits: staying alive and getting free.

He turned his head to the left, pleased that he could still do that. He was less pleased to find that he could only see more nothing. The room was completely dark, and lycanthropy didn't actually give your human half increased senses.

Fine, so there was nothing to see. Anything to hear? He listened. No. More surf, maybe. A sort of rhythmic hushing. But it could be anything. He could be only hoping it was the sea, since it would mean he hadn't been taken far.

He was alone in the space, at least.

Next: to test the bonds. If he could move his head, it wasn't a Body Bind—and he could rotate his wrists, wiggle his fingers, and flex his feet. Incarcerous, then. He could feel the pressure of its binding across his chest, his arms, his hips, his thighs and calves. It wasn't uncomfortable, but it didn't give enough for him to wiggle free. He would have to hope that the casting had been be weak enough either to dissipate if not renewed in time, or for him to Finite it wandlessly.

"Finite," he tried sternly. The bonds ignored him. He wasn't that surprised; the magic felt more than strong. Implacable, even, its power forged from a source as deep as a loch. It curled around his senses, taunting yet indifferent.

"Maybe I can talk my way out of this," he muttered, letting his head drop back against the mattress. There was no pillow. "If whoever-it-is comes back."

He needed an idea of who he was dealing with. Was he tied down because he was a werewolf? Because someone had it in for Accidents & Catastrophes? Because he'd been a member of the Order? Perhaps Andromeda had a hit taken out on him. He doubted it was the poisoner, although he couldn't decide whether encountering the person in this way would be ironic enough to happen to him or such a backwards stroke of luck that it never would.

Then he heard it... a soft noise, like the scrape of a foot on the floor. He stilled himself completely, down to his thoughts, his breath, and listened hard. It was muffled, but there... it was drawing closer...

He raised his head and strained his eyes toward the sound and saw, as if by magic, the thinnest outline of a glow appearing at a spot low to his sight. A light shining along the bottom of the other side of a closed door.

Another sound; a soft clunk, as of metal on metal—a key turning in a lock—and then a click. The door parted from the solid darkness, that soft, bare light tracing up its edges.

Remus had meant to put his head down and feign unconsciousness, but he did not. Because standing in the doorway, looking as shocked as himself, was Severus Snape.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Credit: The werewolf lore about fire and silver isn't from HP canon but from Discworld.

Remus stared. Snape stared back. The light from the old-fashioned candle dish he held carved his face into planes of shadow.

 _You're alive_ was the first thought that popped into Remus' head. What came out of his mouth was: "My hands seemed to be tied down."

"I know, Lupin," Snape said softly. "I'm the one who tied you down."

Was his voice soft from choice or from...?

Harry had told Remus about the snake; Hermione's eyes had glistened with tears. " _If only we'd known_ ," she'd said, " _known who he really was, we could have tried to save him..._ " Remus' heart had echoed with cold at the ruthlessness of their doing nothing as Snape died; at the fact that they'd been taught such cruelty by their own lives.

But it seemed Snape had saved himself. How?

" _There was so much blood... I hated him then, I did, so much, but to see it like that..._ "

Snape moved into the room, but cautiously, keeping his wary gaze on Remus. Floorboards surged with echoing creaks beneath his feet, and the candle's flame shone as two pinpricks of light in his eyes.

"What are you doing here?" he asked in a voice hardly louder than a whisper. He stood holding the candle at a spot about a pace away from the bed, as if he thought Remus might leap up and attack him.

"I like that question," Remus said. "I might borrow it, if that's all right?"

His own voice was equally quiet. Solidarity? Disbelief? Or maybe this just seemed like the sort of situation to be quiet in, when you were at the nominal mercy of a man who'd loathed you for most of his life, and you had thought that life had ended in a flash of pointless brutality; when you were wrapped in darkness with him, and you couldn't see through it.

"I asked first," Snape said; and there was the familiar rudeness surging through, even though his voice was so soft the faint rush of the ocean in the distance almost drowned it.

Remus shouldn't be wanting to roll his eyes; he had been nearly drowned, and apparently someone they'd all presumed dead for eighteen months had rescued him, dried him off, and tied him up for questioning. No, on second thought, it was the perfect time to roll his eyes. So he did.

"I don't know what I'm doing here." The softness of their voices somehow served to make the situation seem almost... intimate. Except that was ludicrous. "Last I remember, I passed out on a hideous, desolate beach."

"If it were daylight, you could see it from your window. That's my beach, Lupin."

"You came back from the dead to pick beachfront property like that?"

"Of _course_ , Lupin. It was the thought that propelled me through the War."

Remus found that rather funny, although the flash of amusement died a moment later, as if burnt to vapor by their reality. "Christ, Severus, everyone thinks you're dead."

"That was my ambition." Snape's soft voice was cold. "And what is yours, Lupin? You still haven't answered what you think you're doing on this island."

"I have no idea what I—we're on an island?"

" _Lupin_ ," Snape snapped, but his voice didn't get any louder.

"I had... an accident," Remus said lamely. "I was doing fieldwork, and there was..." He remembered the heat and cold as if he could still feel them; as if they lived inside him now. "I... fell off a cliff into the water. Then I woke up on the beach."

Snape was quiet for some time. "You didn't come looking for me."

"Of course not, Severus. I thought you were dead."

"I have your wand," Snape said a few moments later. "And my reflexes are as good as ever. You'd be unwise to try anything."

Before Remus could reply, he felt the bonds of the Incarcerous warm. They glowed into sight, and then with cloth-like hisses they snapped apart and curled in on themselves, disappearing into pinpoint bursts of light. He blinked the afterimage away and sat up.

A glance at Snape—who had backed off from the bed, his wand held at waist-height—made Remus decide it might be better for him to get up as far from... his host... as possible. He rolled off the left side of the bed and stood, facing Snape across the narrow mattress.

"Thank you, Severus," he said cautiously.

Snape did not reply, and his inscrutable expression in the bright glow from the candle didn't change. But when he waved his wand, the candle flame detached from its wick, splitting itself into three smaller pieces. They streaked glowing trails across the room and nestled inside three lamps Remus had previously been unable to see in the dark. The room filled with soft light, washing across furnishings heavy and ornate.

"You may stay here for the night. In the morning I will come to show you out. Do not go wandering without my permission."

He flicked his wand again; one of the flames slipped out of its lamp and returned to the candle in his hand.

_I can't let him leave me in here._

"Er—" Remus said. Snape paused at the door, but only cut a glance at him, wary and disdainful. "Please don't think I wish to be an extreme burden, Severus, but... do you have anything to eat?"

Snape did not answer right away. Then he said coldly, "Come with me," and swept away. Either he had raided his wardrobe before fleeing under the shroud of his own supposed death, or he'd bought new sets just like the old ones.

Remus would have followed him anywhere if there was food at the other end of the road. He jogged a bit to catch up with Snape, who was moving like he wanted to leave Remus behind but intended to be nonchalant about it.

Remus wanted to ask where they were, but he doubted he'd find out. Snape was hiding here. He'd probably tied him down because he was worried about being attacked; he wouldn't tell Remus outright where they were. In fact, Remus suspected he was going to have to be on his guard if he didn't want to find himself Obliviated. Maybe he could knot the bed sheets together and escape through the window?

The candlelight washed over tapestries that rustled sleepily and paintings that slept on canvases dark with age. The corridor was deeply shadowed and narrow, and took them to a cylindrical staircase even narrower. Remus wound after Snape down the steep stairs, whose walls were so close he couldn't have stretched his arms out all the way.

Although the steps continued down, Snape stepped off after one flight and led Remus down a much broader hall, past a magnificent wooden staircase. It was a much nicer sight than the glass case they passed next, more than two meters tall and stuffed with shriveled dead things.

"That's cheerful," he said. "Are those your Christmas decorations?"

 _What's wrong with you?_ asked his brain. _He's back from the dead, and you break the silence with that?_

"That," Snape said without turning, "is evidence of pure-blood taste. Such as it ever was."

Now they were walking down a stone corridor, also narrow but undecorated. Gaps in the stones opened Remus' ears to the noise of the ocean folding over the beach in the distance.

A door opened in front of Snape, either at the flick of his wand or from an enchantment that recognized him, and Remus followed him into a warm kitchen. Unlike the halls they'd left behind, whose air had felt thick in his lungs from dust and disuse, this room was bright and clean. The table was stained but scrubbed; the fireplace housed layers of soot, but it was well-stoked with flames. There was even a clock high on the wall above the stove.

"It's only five in the afternoon?" Remus said, shocked.

"Five in the afternoon of the following day." Snape set the now-sightless candle down on the counter-top and opened an olive-green refrigerator that looked about the same age as Slughorn's teaching career. "You've been asleep for about thirty hours. Well." He disappeared into the fridge and re-emerged with, of all things, a large Tupperware bowl full of something stew-looking. "I should say I found you thirty hours ago. I have no idea how long you lay there icing over before that."

Remus said distractedly, "Healing sleep. Werewolf thing." And as always when coming out of a healing sleep, he was disorientated. He put his hand on his forehead, as if that would help hold his thoughts in place. Something else about Slughorn was eddying around his mind, but everything was all jumbled up, and a bigger idea was trying to push to the front... "That means it's... what day does that make it?"

"Thursday."

_Teddy._

"Oh no!" Remus stared around for a door. "I'm sorry, Severus, but I need to go—"

Before he'd take more than a step and a half, he was looped back and bumped against the table. He felt that scratching of power again as the spell snaked around him, implacable and deep but not so impersonal anymore.

"If you think I'm just going to let you pelt out of here, Lupin, you lost what little wits you had before you fell in the water."

Remus grabbed the back of a chair to pull himself upright and glared at Snape. He stood by the stove, his wand gripped in a fist that had gone tight. For the first time Remus noticed he was wearing a thick grey muffler swathed around his throat.

The sight of it probably should have made him feel calmer and more sympathetic, but his anger and anxiety over what his son might be feeling overpowered his compassion. He snarled, "Is that meant to be menacing?"

For a split second Snape's suspicious face opened in surprise, but then his sneer flashed up. "And is that meant to impress me?" He pointed his wand, and Remus remembered with a swooping chill in his stomach that his wand was somewhere only Snape knew. "Use your battered head, Lupin, if you can. Remember how shocked you were to see me much more alive than I should be?"

Remus' anger parted like mist. "I'm not running off to the _Prophet_ , Snape, if that's what you're thinking."

"What I'm thinking, Lupin, is that I don't give a flaming damn where you're going or why. But you're not leaving here as long as you know where I am."

"Obliviate me, then, and get it over with. Unless you're threatening to keep me locked up here?"

"As if I could stand you." But Snape looked hard at him. "You don't care if I wipe your memories?"

"You care whether I care?"

" _No_. Fine. Since you're begging for it." He raised his wand. _"Obliv—"_

"Wait!" Remus held out his hands, surprised at his own surge of panic, and Snape shocked him again by stopping. "I—look, I'm sorry, Severus, I am, it's only that last night—"

"Lupin, I don't give a damn—"

"—was my night to see my son, and now I've missed it, everyone's going to be frantic—"

The thought of a massive manhunt for his unwanted house guest—prisoner?—flashed over Snape's face in a dart of near-panic. He wrestled it beneath a shield of contempt. "That's even more reason for you to get out, Lupin."

Remus frowned. "So anyone could turn up looking for me?"

"Of course not, idiot. No one gets in unless I bring them in. And no one gets out," his eyes glittered, "unless I show them out."

"What about the beach? Where I washed up..."

Snape scowled, as if he'd been wondering that himself but didn't want to admit it. "It is possible that the enchantments don't penetrate very far beneath the water. From the state you were in, I don't guess you swam up."

Remus remembered salt and light in his eyes, the roar of surf in his ears, water burning his throat and mouth. "I might even have been a corpse when I drifted through."

A thought which had been circling in his muddled head suddenly pricked him like a bee. Not because of anything he'd just thought, but because he had calmed enough for a moment to let it in.

"Severus..." he said slowly, staring at the man's wand, "Why did you think I had come looking for you?"

Sure enough, Snape's fingers tightened on his wand's handle so fast, Remus could see the strain in his knuckles.

"It seemed far too serendipitous for you to just have washed up." Snape's dark eyes glittered at Remus like moonlight on the water.

"It was serendipitous, wasn't it." Remus tried not to keep darting glances at the wand like someone who'd never been unarmed in combat before. "Are you worried because of the war, or because you think I have some more immediate reason to come after you?"

Snape stared at him out of narrowed eyes. Then he glided forward, slowly, moving like a shadow that followed the body at midday. Remus almost backed away; he did move half a step, but then he forced himself to stop, not to cower or grab the knife lying so enticingly on the cutting board close at hand.

"As you say, Lupin," Snape said in that soft voice, reduced in volume but not in venom, "I have several reasons to be worried, don't I?"

"Harry says you were working for Dumbledore." Remus forced himself to look Snape in the eye, not in the wand. But his courage was rewarded by a frisson of emotion in the lines around the man's eyes.

"And you take _Harry's_ word as gospel, do you?" Snape hissed. "You think I couldn't fool that brainless little twerp?"

"Severus, if you'd been really working for Voldemort all the while, you'd have to be the lousiest double-agent on the planet. You've got me at wand-point, you're threatening me—do you honestly think _you_ can fool people into thinking you've got a good side?"

Snape blinked.

"And," Remus said, "do you honestly think I would go from believing you were a traitor to believing you weren't if it didn't seem to make sense?"

"Oh, of course." Snape's sneer was so fierce, he was almost baring his teeth. "No one ever just goes from _believing_ one thing to believing another, not without good, solid _proof_."

"People can believe the worst about people in a heartbeat," Remus said quietly. "But they don't believe the best. Sometimes not even when they have the truth."

For a moment—it was only a flash of a second, not even the length of a heartbeat—Snape's face was so open and vulnerable that something deep inside Remus flinched, hard. But then it was over, having come and gone so fast Remus might have imagined it, were it not for that echo of sorrow inside him.

Snape stepped away from him. He didn't say anything.

"I didn't come here to... do whatever you think I did," Remus said after a few heartbeats of silence. "Harangue you, punish you, get vengeance—it was just an accident, Severus, honest to God."

"Quite the accident," Snape said, but now he was not looking at him.

_You have no idea._

Then Remus did the conversational equivalent of jumping off a cliff after a dying woman. "Or did you think I'd come here about the potions thing?"

Snape didn't move, but his eyes cut toward Remus. He said nothing.

"You know what I mean, then," Remus said.

"National panic is hard to miss, even for a reclusive pariah. I'm not responsible for it, if that's what you're wondering, Lupin."

"I didn't think you were."

"Of course not." The sneer settled into lines deeply carved in his face. "Because I'm such a good little innocent, after all. A Gryffindor by proxy."

This struck Remus as funny, but darkly, bleakly so. "Oh, I'd never say that. I just said I believed you weren't working for Voldemort."

Remus would have missed the expression on Snape's face if he'd blinked.

"You don't know anything, Lupin," Snape said, but his voice was... empty.

"Well, I know I don't want to hurt you. I know you have my wand," Remus said, resisting the urge to roll his eyes when Snape showed his contempt, "but for what it's worth, even if I had it. Unless I was defending myself," he added dryly.

Snape didn't speak right away.

"If I wanted to hurt you, Lupin, I'd have done it."

The door behind Remus swung open, letting into the kitchen a wash of icy cold air and the smell of wet rain. Remus turned, but the doorway was empty. Snape had unlatched it with a spell.

"Now I assume you're ready to get out." Snape's voice, almost overpowered by the harsh patter of the rain, was only audible because he swept past Remus as he said it, so close the edge of his robe brushed across Remus' knee.

Remaining wary, he followed Snape out into a stone courtyard, pausing while Snape took a lantern from a hook just outside the door. Remus conjured two umbrellas, but Snape merely looked at the one held out toward him and pulled up his hood without taking it.

Remus trailed him and the lantern down a covered walkway between the kitchen and a building that had once been either stables or a carriage-house; he didn't know enough about old manors to tell. As he passed through to the other side, the scent in the frozen air changed subtly from wet stone to wet earth and leaves; a garden, wrapped carefully against the winter, all twisting stalks of barren bushes whose wet wood glinted in the passing lamp beam. Across the barren hedges, Remus could hear the enfolding hush of the surf grow louder. He took one glance at the house behind him, but it was dark against the night, only the kitchen and a single window lit on high, as if floating disconnected in the darkness.

The glow of Snape's lantern lit their way beneath a trellis tangled over with a barren rose bush, and then began to descend from sight. When Remus followed him through the trellis, he saw a set of steps leading from the garden terrace down to that rocky, desolate shore. He followed Snape to the beach, where the rocks crunched beneath the soles of his shoes. Black water wafted into the cast-off glow from the lantern, but did not touch them.

Snape stopped and turned to Remus, the lantern held out on its pole, his sodden robes sticking close to him like a pillar. Remus tensed, but then he realized Snape was only moving in so that he could be heard over the sound of the rain and the sea.

"Your wand is in your coat pocket," he said in his half-whisper, close enough for Remus to be able to see the bruised skin in the hollow of bone between his eyes and the bridge of his nose. "Imbecile." But there was no inflection to it.

Remus blinked. He felt his left pocket and sure enough, there was his wand. He actually laughed. "You git," he said, amused in spite of himself.

Snape's wand was pointing at him. At first Remus didn't understand, but a moment later he saw the moonlight glow of Obliviatus shining into existence.

Then he knew he'd been had.

"Very clever, Severus," he heard himself say.

Snape was looking straight into his eyes. His lips parted, and he whispered something too quietly for Remus to hear, even standing close enough to touch, his soft voice falling into the sounds of the sea.

And then the beach rushed away, torn from beneath Remus' feet, the glitter of the lantern on the water transforming to streaks of light.


	6. Chapter 6

Severus stood on the beach for long moments, half-listening to the sound of the sea weathering the shore in the dark. The wind was biting and cold, and he was some kind of fucking moron.

He stowed his wand in his sleeve, but slowly, and went just as slowly along the beach to the stairs. Through the rain and the slumbering garden, past the carriage-house and into the kitchen, where the delicate warmth of the fire enfolded him. He stared for a moment at the tub of stew he'd taken out of the refrigerator, to feed Lupin with, before they had veered off in another direction entirely.

He sent it back to the fridge with a wave of his wand and left the kitchen.

He paused at the glass case full of dead things: his grandfather's old hunting trophies, plus some other objects that had been chucked in willy-nilly over the years. There were house-elf heads, the hoof of a centaur... the paw of a wolf. His grandfather had probably told people it had come from a werewolf he'd killed.

 _What a load of shit_ , he thought. Perhaps tomorrow he would dump the lot into the sea. Hopefully Nitty would have a stroke.

She'd always hated him, just as she'd always hated his mother, the family whore who'd run away from her good, decent family for a creature barely human. Proper pure-bloods did not consider Muggle marriages to be true marriages, untouched, as they were, by the sanctity of magic. And the Princes had never been good enough to be anything but far too proper, from their over-starched collars down to their poorly dressed house-elves. Severus was a bastard to them, his mother a blood-traitor slag.

He was only shocked his mother had been able to stand living here for so long. But his mother was not the sort of woman you asked questions of.

He had got her first postcard yesterday, in the morning as the dawn tinted the sky. _Russia is decent. It is covered in ice and snow, and wilder by far than England. There is great magic in the land itself; I can feel it. I am being taught my own insignificance._

English winter was thin as weak tea compared to that. And yet Severus always felt cold these days. Perhaps he'd spent too long in Italy, where the sunlight had a different cast and its touch was almost decadent, not impersonal, the way he'd felt it all his life. One winter away had ruined him for England, where the light felt anemic even in the summer. In Italy, Spain and Greece, sunset had turned the land to gold.

He wondered what the light was like in Russia.

And then, putting the post-card away, he'd seen something small and dark trickling out of the sea, blotting the ugly stretch of beach below his window. A person—but how could a person have got past these wards? Some of them were so old and warped, he had no idea where they'd come from, let alone how to remove them. They were supposed to keep everyone out until a member of the Prince bloodline gave passage.

His shock had been complete when he found that the object on his beach was Remus Lupin. He was soaked to the skin, wearing Muggle clothes with singe marks, as if he'd taken a furnace blast to the face.

Severus had stared down at his familiar, lined face for a good solid minute before he Levitated him off the rocks, up the shore and through the garden, into the house.

He couldn't even call it a moment of insanity, because he had left Lupin unconscious in one of his grandfather's less horrific guestrooms for more than a day. Any fit of insanity should have expired in the time it took to Levitate Lupin off the ground. If it had been only a matter of coming to his senses, Severus should have dropped him immediately. Instead he'd taken Lupin inside, dried him off, even checked him over. Muscle strains and bruising, but werewolves healed on their own if you let them alone—which you had to do, since their systems were too different from a wizard's for the majority of healing spells and potions to work. So he'd left Lupin to sleep his way to convalescence. Although he'd tied him down, because he wasn't an idiot; Lupin might want to kill him when he came to.

As he'd studied Lupin's breathing—at first shallow, then deepening as he healed—he'd thought the man must have come looking for him. Narcissa had written to him of the poison, relieved to be safe in France with a stroppy son and an ailing husband and not facing any greater terror than how much money Draco would squander on loose women. If Lupin hadn't come for him in some rage of war grief, perhaps he thought Snape had spent his post-war days developing a potion to give people neck strain in the worst possible way. There was no chance, he'd thought, that Lupin could simply have turned up there by chance.

Leglimency still didn't work on werewolves. He'd never told anyone this, certainly not Lupin. Let the man think Severus could learn his soul the way he could everyone else's, whether he wanted to or not. He would no more tell Lupin about his advantage than he would the momentary sense of disconnect he experienced every time he looked into Lupin's pale eyes and saw only the color blue, no thoughts or hatred or fears. He'd have to get the information out of Lupin the old-fashioned way. Of course, Lupin was the most honorable of Gryffindors—whatever he was there for, Severus would surely find out in the first few seconds, when Lupin read him a litany of his crimes.

But then Lupin hadn't behaved like a man enraged by the war at all. In fact, he'd hardly behaved like a man who'd lived through any war, let alone two. It was as if near-two years of regular living had wiped Lupin clean of sense and resentment. Severus wished he had the luxury.

But so many years spent spying had stained him with habits. He'd led Lupin through a simple interrogation, acting transparent for his own part, at the mercy of his own emotions... and Lupin hadn't even noticed. Perhaps he'd thought, the daft, tufty-headed werewolf, that Severus had forgotten his intention of not letting him leave with his memories. It had been so easy to fool him that Severus had really expected Lupin was faking it, but the look on his face when Severus had stood across from him at the water line, the beginnings of Obliviatus at the tip of his wand...

How had they won the war, with people like that fighting for them?

 _Because they had me_. _They had me to do the things they couldn't bear to, but needed doing the way they needed water and food._

Exoneration, was that what Lupin had said? Severus had known Potter was trying for it; Narcissa was an excellent correspondent in every regard. He had told neither her nor Lupin that there was no exoneration for him. That implied innocence, or at least forgiveness; and he was not innocent, he did not deserve to be forgiven. He had done everything they had asked of him; crimes did not cease to be crimes just because they were requests. He'd done all of it... been a Death Eater, murdered Albus, stood in the Headmaster's study as Death Eaters walked the halls of Hogwarts. He had given Lily up to be murdered, and he had handed her son the information that would take him to his death. That the boy survived didn't matter, because Severus had sent him off to die. That Severus had not known Lily would be drawn into the tide of the prophecy did not matter; because of what he'd said and done, she had died, far too young and in terror for the life of her child, knowing her own life was over.

There could be no forgiveness for betraying the person you loved, no matter if it was one time or a hundred.

He should have died eighteen months ago. A part of him had wanted to. He thought he had prepared for it, in his heart. But he'd found himself fixing the blood-replenishing capsules and hiding the bezoar in his cuff in the long hours when he was alone; had bit down on them regardless of all sins and self-loathing, then got up and walked out of the Shack weighted down with his own blood.

He had never quite understood why he'd wished to survive. All he could find,on his many trips through his heart, was a vague certainty that he hadn't wanted to die after all. After everything, that survival instinct had sunk into his bones.

It had been too meditated to be a fit of insanity.

And here he was again, confronted with the mystery of himself, because he had just sent Remus Lupin away from his hiding place still armed with knowledge of him. At the last moment, Obliviatus on his tongue, Severus had instead incanted only the spell that would send Lupin away, still remembering that he was alive.

* * *

 

Remus landed staggering on another beach. It was dark, but he could see a couple of lights glowing far up the strip of sand.

"You prick, Snape," he said aloud, and then he laughed. Snape had been playing him the whole time.

"And you utter, daft sod, Remus," he said to himself, laughing again.

Then he Apparated through the freezing night to Andromeda's cottage.

 _This is going to be a doozy_ , he thought, swinging his legs over the gate instead of bothering to unlock it.

He was halfway up the path to the kitchen door when it unlocked behind the screen. Andromeda must have felt him moving through the wards they all kept knitted around their homes, out of both habit and necessity. She stood in the empty doorway, but with the light of the kitchen behind her, he couldn't see her face.

"You bastard," she said. That was clear enough.

"I assume you heard I had a work-related accident?" Remus asked. Now he could see; her face through the black mesh was livid.

"That's why." She was barely parting her lips to speak. "You complete and utter—arsehole. Do you have any idea what we've been through? Everyone thought you were dead."

Instead of choosing to answer that, he asked, "May I come in?"

She shot her wand so hard at the door, it blasted off one of its hinges. She didn't bother to fix it, only stood there glaring at him, white in the face, looking as if she wanted to hex him every bit as hard as she'd done the door.

"Wha's tha'sound?" Teddy pattered toward the kitchen—there was a whump as he tripped—and Remus got to the door in time to see him pick himself up from the floor, his face squinched up.

"Dadadadada!" He threw his arms up at Remus, his hair twinkling from indigo to a bright dandelion color. Remus swept him into a hug before he'd got to the third 'da.'

"Bad da," Teddy scolded, grabbing him by the nose, changing his hair and eyes to match Remus'.

"Yes," Remus agreed, hugging him so tightly he squirmed. "Very bad. I'm so sorry."

"Yes, do apologize to him," Andromeda said. "He's the one whose heart you'd have broken if you never came back."

For the first time since Dora had died, Remus wanted to hit her. He was so angry he didn't even trust himself to reply.

He spun Teddy around twice, eliciting a stream of giggles, and came to a stop facing her across the length of the parlor. She looked older already.

"I need to firecall Harry," he said. "Let him know."

"I don't want that boy coming here."

 _My near death not catastrophic to put some things in perspective, is it?_ He may have been acting like an ass lately, but he wasn't cruel; all he said was, "I won't invite him, but he needs to know I'm all right."

Perhaps she was being heroic, too, because she didn't say anything; she only turned and left the room. He heard her banging around in the kitchen.

"Harree?" Teddy said.

"We're going to call Harry on the fire," Remus said, kneeling by the hearth. He didn't put Teddy down. He didn't think he could have.

"I do I do," Teddy said, trying to stick his hand in the Floo powder pot.

"All right." Remus offered the pot, and Teddy flung ash all over the both of them and the floor without getting any in the grate. Remus did the second round himself, and then vanished the rest of the powder when Teddy tried to eat some.

"Not for eating," he was saying sternly as Harry's head flared to sight in the grate.

"Remus?" The greenish glow of the fire made Harry look deathly ill. "Oh thank God. Hermione! Ron!" he yelled into the back of the fireplace. "He's okay! Wait, are you okay?" The flames rotated back toward Remus. "You look okay, are you?"

"I'm fine," Remus assured him, wrestling Teddy to keep him from crawling into the fire to bat at Harry's head. "I fell into a healing sleep on a beach somewhere. When I woke up, I came straight here—I'm at Andromeda's."

"Right. God," Harry said, his voice sounding like the crackle of the fire, "don't scare everyone like that. Accidents & Catastrophes said you jumped off a cliff after a woman who'd—" He stopped, the green flames of his eyes flickering at Teddy, who was watching raptly.

"Boom," Remus said quietly.

Teddy looked up. "Big boom?"

"Yes." At the memory—at what had almost happened—Remus felt as cold as if he'd swallowed a mouthful of ashes left for months in the grate. He kissed Teddy's hair.

 _That can never happen again_.

"God," Harry said again. "Look, come over later, all right? We won't be sleeping until we see you, so whatever time it is, come over. We're at George's flat, he and Ginny just ducked out to grab some takeaway—they'll be pis—" He recalled the age of his audience and quickly said: "—you know—they missed you, we've been waiting all day—"

"I'm sorry," Remus started.

"Don't be sorry, you're alive. Just come by later so the girls can give you several earfuls, yeah?"

"I'll be there," Remus promised. Harry's smile flickered across five different flames; a moment later, his face had sunk down to ash, the fire snuffing itself with a soft phoomp.

"Do you want anything to eat?" Andromeda asked from the kitchen door, in a voice like the wind across Severus' shore.

The cold-ash feeling was still blocking his stomach, but he didn't want to leave. "That would be lovely. Thank you."

"Eat eat eat eat," Teddy said as Remus wrestled him into his high chair.

"No scratching," he said; Teddy had grown red panda paws to match his puffy tail and ears. But his voice wasn't strong as he said it, and he scratched behind Teddy's ears.

Andromeda was serving stew. It figured.

When she said, "I told him you had to work late," her voice was barely louder than Severus'.

"Werewolves are hard to kill," he said, his voice equally quiet, in part so that Teddy wouldn't hear it over his singing.

"But fire does it." Andromeda poured milk into a no-spill baby cup. "I remember. Whenever you'd go out, when Dora was..." Her hand lingered in Teddy's hair; he smiled up at her, his eyes turned solidly black to match his red panda look. "She told me, fire and silver, it's all that could really hurt you. She was so worried, in case any of... in case anyone knew..."

Remus was surprised he was able to speak past the heavy weight in his heart, like the presence of emptiness. "They told you what happened on the cliff, then."

"Yes." Andromeda's eyes hardened. "I hoped you would come back so you could tell me how that damned woman's life was more important than your son."

Remus had honestly not anticipated that spin on things. "Is that how you see it?"

"How else am I supposed to see it?"

When Teddy made a soft whimpering noise, his red panda ears flattening against his hair, she smoothed her hand across her face.

"I think perhaps it's a House trait," Remus said. His heart was beating hard. He smiled at Teddy and fluffed his tail; Teddy grabbed it away from him and hugged it against his chest, bearing his fangs and making chomping motions at Remus' fingers.

"You're going to turn this into an anecdote about the four bloody Founders?" Andromeda asked in a polite voice, although every bone in her face was hard with fury.

"Of course not. But I think that's one type of bravery, perhaps the biggest type they... test for in Gryffindor. You do things, reckless things, completely without thinking about them. That's how you're able to do them. Because you aren't thinking."

"I'm glad to know Teddy will be able to depend on you." Andromeda was white to the lips. "To be here until the next fit of recklessness seizes you, and then you might be around after, or you might not."

Remus was silent. He tickled Teddy behind the ear, renewing a series of attacks on his own fingers. The only part of him that laid any claim to wisdom was telling him that Andromeda was not angry at him, not really. She was furious with someone else, someone who meant more to her than Remus ever would, than even Teddy could; someone who had walked out the door eighteen months ago and never come home.

"No one's life means more to me than Teddy," he said at last, because it seemed the only safe thing to say, and was the truest thing he knew.

"You might place a higher priority on your own, then." Andromeda's eyes were narrowed to slits. "Without you, who does he have?"

"He will always be loved. But by no one more than me. Are we here like this because you doubt that?"

All the life had gone from her face. The whole house was silent.

"Mroo," Teddy said, poking the back of Remus' hand with his paws.

There was a tremor in Andromeda's voice as she said, "It's easy to die for someone you love. It's harder by far to live without them. You shouldn't ask yourself what is worth dying for. You should ask yourself who is worth living for."

She stood from her chair and left the kitchen, leaving him as unable to speak as if, like Snape's beach, her words had torn him away from the earth.

* * *

 

The door to George's flat flew open, and Harry flew into the open doorway.

"Thank God!" He grabbed Remus in a hug, as tight as the one from the night Remus had awoken in the room of Hogwarts' dead, eighteen months ago.

"It's all right," Remus said, rubbing Harry's shoulder. He could feel his own eyes stinging.

"Remus!" Hermione squeaked; the next moment, he was staggering back against George's closed door as Hermione pelted into him. He was dragged up the stairs into the sitting-room by someone with red hair who seemed to be Ron, and then accosted by Ginny, who squeezed him and then punched him twice on the shoulder.

"You berk!" she said fiercely. "You'd better be glad you're alive!"

"Getting promoted one day and reported MIA the next." George looked like he wanted to smile but couldn't. "That's our Remus."

"Really," Remus said, his insides wrenching at the banked furor of emotion on all their faces—Harry's, Hermione's, Ron's, Ginny's, George's. "I'm fine, I'm perfectly well."

"It's good you've recovered." Hermione sunk down onto the couch, clutching her chest as if her heart were giving her trouble. "Now we can all try to catch up."

Remus understood what had happened to them all: the same had happened to him on the cliff beside Artemisia Dent in the seconds before the smell of burning stung the air. The peace of their lives had been fractured. Someone had died in front of Remus, and everyone who cared about him had been forced to wait to hear whether he was gone, too.

Someone had done this to all of them. And Remus had almost let himself be taken in by it.

"I really didn't mean for it to happen," he said, and he wondered if he were talking to them or to himself.

Ron's face was so pale, his freckles stood out starkly. "Someone's got to stop this bastard. He's sick."

"We read the papers," Hermione whispered. The softness of her voice reminded Remus of Severus.

Severus. Now there was enough food for thought to last through a long, dark winter. _Why do I still remember you? Why did you leave me still remembering you?_

"Papers?" he asked.

They all traded glances. Then George passed over a folded copy of the _Prophet_ , blackened with newsprint and a moving photograph.

It was himself, jumping off that cliff. And then, a heartbeat later, the fire rising in a blackened cloud into the air.

"Yes," Remus said, his eyes on his own self, leaping out into empty space. "Someone's got to stop him."

* * *

 

As the others wound down for bed, Harry grabbed Remus' wrist and tugged him onto George's sumptuous balcony, into the cold and the glitter of Diagon Alley's Christmas decorations, incongruous against the backdrop of reality.

"Can you tell me what happened?" Harry asked. His shadowed eyes plunged Remus into even older memories, ones from the first war, before Lily and James had gone into hiding, when they had trusted him still. She would hold her son, younger now than Teddy was, and ask Remus, with eyes just like this, _Who else, Remus?_

Who else had been lost...

"I assume you're not just asking about what's in the paper," Remus said. (Harry shook his head.) "What do you want to know?"

"I..." Harry looked as if he hadn't asked himself that question. He turned to look across the balcony, down at the glitter of Diagon Alley, sunken now with the lateness of the hour. The colored lights frosted on his lenses.

"Why did you jump?" There was no accusation in his voice, only an honest question. "Were you trying to catch her?"

"I don't know what I was trying to do," Remus said; it was the truth. "I only knew... I knew she was going to die, and I thought... there has to be something I can do, so it won't happen, so I can stop it..." He felt thirty years older, remembering it. "But there wasn't. I suppose that's the Gryffindor in me. Against all rhyme and reason..."

"It isn't," Harry said, his voice very small but very sure. "You did what was right. I guess sometimes, it just doesn't work..."

Remus put his hand on Harry's shoulder without thinking. But Harry only smiled, as small as his voice had been, and equally young.

"I'll try not to do it again," Remus said.

Harry shook his head. "No, don't promise that. You can't promise not to try and save people."

"Andromeda thinks otherwise," Remus said without thinking.

"Well, she was a Slytherin, wasn't she? They think there are different ways to save people than—jumping off cliffs after them. That's what Hermione said. Well, not about the cliff thing, you know, but she said Slytherins think one way about solving problems and Gryffindors think a whole nother."

"I agree with her very much," he said, thoughts of Snape glittering in his mind. _And you know, I don't think this potion is going to be solved by acting like a Gryffindor. Not wholly Gryffindor, at least._

"Do the people at work know you're alive?" Harry asked.

"Not yet. Thought I'd go there after I'd seen you lot." He smiled.

"I don't mean to sound like Hermione, but—shouldn't you rest a bit?"

"That's all I did for over thirty hours, I slept. Really, I'm fine now. Whatever injuries I sustained, they were nothing compared to the transformation. Werewolf bodies take care of themselves."

Harry nodded, looking very serious. He looked down at his hands. Then he said, "Is Teddy okay?"

"He's okay," Remus said gently.

"I'm glad you came back," Harry said in a voice so quiet, the late night noises of the city almost swallowed it.

And then Remus did something reckless.

"I'll always come back," he said. "You have my word on that."

_To Teddy. And to you._


	7. Chapter 7

Even though it was past ten o'clock at night, heads started turning the minute Remus crossed the Atrium. Apparently he was more of a celebrity than he'd thought, because the photograph in the _Prophet_ hadn't been a front shot, yet people were pointing unerringly at him and muttering. He clenched his hand, but stuffed it in his pocket. The staring eyes and low voices were no different a reaction that the one that had followed his "resurrection" at the end of the War.

 _Proof that werewolves aren't human_ , some people had said. Over and over. _Proof they're something else entirely. Proof they have to be controlled, for our safety._

"I came back to life," Harry had told every reporter who'd asked him. "What are you going to say about me?"

A flashbulb went off to Remus' left. He pushed the button for the lift without blinking, as if his eyes were always filled with bright green spots. When the golden doors clattered open, he stepped inside, ignoring the sudden hush, the staring, and pressed the silver button marked with a thin black 3.

The ride up was silent. He looked straight ahead as if he were alone in the lift, thinking of nothing in particular.

At the third floor, he walked into more staring. It was really starting to grate.

"Excuse me," he said politely to a young woman holding a stack of folders and gaping at him, "is Campanula Grey in?"

"Lupin?"

Will bloody Cauther, standing halfway down the corridor and goggling. Remus felt sorry for him when he saw rings under his eyes; but Cauther's face was full of only surprise and unfriendliness.

"Cauther," he said anyway, in acknowledgement. Then, abandoning the lot of gaping underlings clumped around the lifts, he went down the hall to Ms. Grey's office. She wasn't in, but her door was open and a couple of Catastrophic employees were talking to each other in frustrated voices, pointing at a bunch of papers on her desk. Deciding he'd only get his head bitten off for butting in—or stared at some more—Remus ignored the stunned people walking past him in the hall and headed to the debriefing room.

The door was standing open. There was Ms. Grey, with a number of people around her, their features less familiar than the expression of suppressed frustration and fear. Remus' stomach clenched.

 _This is too much like the war, Weston_.

O'Connor of the red bowtie was now, predictably, staring at him. As he broke off his conversation, everyone else's heads gradually turned, until Remus was being stared at by more than half a dozen people across the room. For God's sake.

"Lupin?" Ms. Grey said, sounding staggered.

"Ms. Grey," he said, but then he stopped, because he had just caught sight of some writing on the blackboard behind her. In bright red chalk, someone had drawn, in jagged strokes, the number 45.

He didn't have to ask what it meant.

"Gracious Rowena," she said. White in the face, she pushed past O'Connor and a couple of others to get to him. "We thought you'd drowned or got blown up—what—what happened?"

"I think the current carried me away," Remus said, which wasn't necessarily a lie; it had to have done for him to have wound up on an island off the shore of Cumbria. "I had the good luck to be found by a wizard passing on the beach."

"That's convenient," said a man Remus didn't recognize. He felt himself tense all over, as if he'd been hit with a freezing spell, but he was saved from having either to reply or ignore that by Ms. Grey's rounding on the bastard.

"Dawson, you have a job to be doing," she snapped. "Lives to be saving, if you'll recall. Come with me, Lupin."

She strode out of the room and whisked him into a tiny office that seemed unoccupied at the moment, judging by the stacks of papers in boxes and barren walls. With one hand she shut the door, saying immediately:

"You were found by a wizard _passing_ on the _beach_?"

"Yes," Remus said, because it was, in a sense, perfectly true. He hadn't lied to Severus: he didn't have any intention of telling anyone about any of it—not that he was alive, and especially not where he was. "But Ms. Grey, I'm more concerned by the number on that blackboard."

"Never mind that," Grey said, although she looked like she minded a great deal. "Lupin, I'm sorry, but everyone thought you were dead—we scoured the beach for hours, as much as we could spare; we pulled in volunteers from all over the Ministry, and you weren't anywhere to be found."

This was like inventing excuses of being ill when the truth was he turned into a werewolf. Even after surviving the War, he'd never revealed to anyone except Harry that werewolves could only die by fire or silver. He was not going to bare this fact to the Ministry. "I was found by then. I've been asleep since yesterday."

"I believe you—I mean, this happened to you before, didn't it? Back in the War, I remember the papers, but..." She looked at him with helpless frustration. "Lupin, a lot of people aren't going to be—they're not just going to take your word for it that you're all right because werewolves have some kind of special healing powers—"

Remus felt his stomach turn over and transform to a block of ice. "You mean they're going to think I had a personal healing power, don't you. From the potion. Or the one who's doing it."

She hesitated, but he could see he'd guessed right; she just didn't want to say it.

"Lupin—Remus, I'm sorry—"

"No." He shook his head. "Don't be. You can't turn the tide of people's opinions any more than you're responsible for them." And the fact was, this development made it a great deal easier to complete the thought that had been drifting through his mind since he had seen Andromeda's white face and Teddy's dandelion-colored hair, heard Harry's voice saying _Thank God_ and Ron's _Someone's got to stop this bastard._

"I think the best thing I can do is resign."

" _What_?" Grey said, flabbergasted. "Wh—you can't—no, Lupin! What makes you think—"

"You can say you've let me go—"

"That'll cement your guilt! And you can't—we need all the help we can get on this, Lupin!"

"Ms. Grey, what in God's name have I ever done for you? The first day I was promoted, I nearly got myself blasted to kingdom come to save a woman who was dead before I even laid eyes on her. And then a great deal of manpower was wasted trying to find me—you can't, please, deny that it was."

She shook her head, but whether she was agreeing or only expressing further helplessness, he didn't know. It didn't matter.

"And you can't afford to have people refusing to work with me for... whatever reason. If they think I'm part of the conspiracy, they'll refuse to share any information with me. You know they will. And they won't be wrong in wanting to protect your progress."

"We _have_ no progress," she said, sounding furious, but not with him. "This bastard's got us all so panicked, we can't find anything out!"

"And adding to the panic by having me around won't help." It was the truth, even though a part of him felt wretched for using her desperation to get him where he needed.

 _This won't be solved by Gryffindor means._ He could almost hear Snape saying it. Even though he'd heard Snape's new voice for the first time only hours ago, the man's formerly sonorous voice had already turned to a soft half-whisper in his head.

"Then you'd better clear out," she said hollowly. "I wish I had the time to convince you, but I don't."

"No," he said. "You've got people's lives to save."

 _And so do I_.

Knowing he wouldn't be coming back here, Remus went down to his old cubicle in Muggle-Worthy Excuses to clear out. He figured he might as well make it look official.

He grabbed things from his desk indiscriminately; there wasn't much. A photograph of Teddy, a few inter-department notes from Hermione on this and that. Someone had taken his chair, and the note card with his name had been turned around, the words TRAITOR written on the other side. He vanished it without even blinking.

"Remus," said a startled male voice. He turned around, equally surprised to be called by his first name in that place, and found himself staring into the shocked, almost desperate face of Lancelot Cringe.

"Praise God," Lancelot said fervently before Remus could get out a word; and grabbed him in a _hug._

To say Remus was shocked would have been to put a mild spin on his feelings. The inadequacy of language only became more pronounced when Lancelot pulled back with his hands on Remus' shoulders and said with quiet fervor: "I had prayed you would be safe."

"Healing sleep," Remus heard himself say, blinking into Lancelot's warm brown eyes, which were much closer than anyone's eyes had been in a long time. Except for Snape's, perhaps, but he'd been threatening Remus at wand-point. "Werewolf thing."

"I think God is looking out for you," Lancelot said, smiling in relief.

"Or maybe someone else is. Someone closer to home."

Oh, for Christ's sake. Remus didn't need Cauther twice in one night. Or ever again, come to think of it.

"Pretty brave of you to come back, Lupin," said Cauther, his eyes narrowed to slits.

"It's really not," Remus said. He didn't feel tired, but whatever snide spirit had been possessing him seemed to have gone. Perhaps it had been burnt to ash or frozen on the tide. He wasn't going to get into a battle of pettiness with anyone, certainly not Will Cauther.

"Are you—packing?" Lancelot looked at the pile of belongings Remus had cobbled together in a cardboard box, sitting on his impersonalized desk.

"I've resigned," Remus said. "Personal issues."

"Got sacked, more like," Cauther said. "You're lucky you're not getting carted off to Azkaban, what with—"

"I really don't think any of us has time to play games," Remus said. He picked up his box, tucking it under his arms, and held out his hand to Lancelot. "I enjoyed working with you. I hope you'll find a way to stay safe."

"Perhaps we should ask _you_ about that," Cauther hissed. Lancelot shot him an almost malevolent look and clasped Remus' hand tightly.

"You, too," Lancelot said in a low voice, looking him in the eyes. "Please take care of yourself. It would... upset me if anything happened to you."

For a second, Remus thought Cauther was going to hit him in the face. Ignoring it, he shook Lancelot's hand, a little unsure what to do with the final squeeze before he let go, and left them standing beside the cubicle where he'd frittered away his days for four months.

It seemed a very long time ago that life had been dull and pointless.

"Lupin," said Cauther's voice, fraught with anger and tension.

Oh for the love of— Remus didn't stop, only kept walking toward the lifts. "Yes, Cauther?" he said without turning. A moment later, the man's hand shot out, grabbed him by his shoulder, and spun him.

Remus clamped a hand down on his wrist and squeezed like a vice in response. Their eyes locked, Cauther's wide and furious and Remus' slightly narrowed.

"You want to take your hand off me, Mr. Cauther," he said. Without waiting for the response, he pried the man's fingers open and shoved them away.

"I'm onto you." Cauther was breathing rather heavily through his nose. Other employees streamed around them, whispering to each other, but Cauther ignored them. "Don't think I don't know what this is really about."

"If you know what this is all about, Cauther, then you're the only man in Britain."

He turned and reached the lifts, punching the 'down' button. Face livid, Cauther followed him.

"You should be _dead_ ," he hissed. "I know there's a connection! Don't you try to deny it, you werewolf freak—"

Remus raised his eyebrows. "Is this about me being a werewolf, or being a suspect in the case? Or perhaps," he said thoughtfully, "it's part of your personal vendetta against me, wherever that started."

The doors to the lift clanged open. Remus stepped through, putting his hand on one door, blocking Cauther from following him in unless he shoved Remus' arm out of the way.

"I am very tired, Mr. Cauther, of personal vendettas. If you want to carry this one, you'll do it alone."

Then he slammed the grilles in Cauther's face. The lift shuddered and sank out of sight, although the afterimage of Cauther's hatred floated in Remus' mind long after he'd left the Ministry.

But let him think what he wanted. Remus had more important things to worry about.

More important things by far.

* * *

 

_December 17_

Remus had hoped, without much conviction, that all the folders of evidence he'd been given would still be waiting for him in his flat; but either they'd been charmed to return to the office in the event of his disappearance or resignation, or someone had come and got them. He would have to make do with photographs from the papers.

Unfortunately, there were plenty.

He stayed up late clipping out the photos and articles and magically pasting them on the inside of Thursday's paper, building a grotesque collage of facts so slim they were almost nothing. Practically all they knew was that people had begun to die.

Tuesday's wish whispered through his mind. _Too late_ , he thought.

He fell asleep on the couch, surrounded by the smell of newsprint, and dreamt fitfully. He dreamed he was walking down the tunnel to the Shrieking Shack, not to turn into a werewolf but to combust; he knew it would happen when the moon filled in the sky, and he had to get away from everyone, to save them from the fire. But Cauther had told Snape where to find Remus and he was coming, and Harry was running to stop him but he didn't get there in time and they both burst into the Shack as Remus felt his veins turning to fire. Snape was covered in blood, the light of the fire was shining across his eyes, and he said, "I'm too late, Lily"—

Remus awoke with a violent start as something slammed into his front door. He lay at an awkward angle on the couch, his heart pounding like a horse, staring into the semi-darkness of winter morning twilight.

 _The paper,_ he thought blearily. He groped across the remains of gutted papers and fumbled the front door open. Icy humid air, tinted with the scent of rain, crested over his hands and face as he grabbed the paper out of a puddle on the front step. He couldn't look at the headline, not in the wake of that dream; so he threw it onto the table beside the front door and stumbled into the kitchen to make—something. Anything, so long as it was warm and filled the hole in his stomach.

He could hear the thrum of next-door's wireless through the walls of his flat. Was it a Christmas programme or a count of how many people had died or been disfigured? All he could hear was the indistinguishable drone of the voice..

He took his tea, pot and all, into the sitting-room and switched on the telly. He scrolled through news programmes, music videos, reruns of sitcoms and dramas—only one channel seemed to be playing anything remotely Christmassy: a version of _A Christmas Carol._

 _"Am I in the presence of the Ghost of Christmas Yet To Come?"_ Scrooge was asking a figure in a menacing cloak.

"Great," Remus muttered. "The darkest part of the movie."

Still, he left it on as he went back to his evidence-building. He'd outlined all the demographics, put in all the pictures he could find, made a table of every tiny thing they knew. It was all tiny. It was also all there; everything he'd known before he ended up in the sea on Wednesday.

Steeling himself, he picked up that morning's paper, now crumpled and stained from having landed in a puddle.

 _"I fear you more,"_ said Scrooge, _"than any spirit I have yet met."_

"With good reason," Remus said, staring at the headlines.

_"I am prepared to follow and to learn with a thankful heart."_

Remus summoned his satchel and packed today's newspaper and his specially made one inside.

_"Will you not speak to me?"_

"Let's hope he will," he said. He shut the telly off with a flick of his wand, pictured his destination, and Apparated.


	8. Chapter 8

Remus opened his eyes to the sight of an icy, slate-colored beach. The world around him was all monochrome: the rocks on the shore; the white-tipped water and the jagged clouds; the house.

In daylight, he could finally see it: a dark net of towers and gables cobbled together on an outcropping of rock that dropped straight to the water. It was at least three stories tall, more where its towers broke the roofline, with thin windows that shone dully opalescent in the stormy light.

Well, at least he hadn't been severed clean in half Apparating in.

Which seemed to mean that Snape hadn't closed the wards against him.

Remus made his way up the beach to the stone steps trailing down from the garden. In the daylight it was a tangle of barren branches, many riddled with thorns. There was a fountain dead center, so old its stone was pitted with watermarks. Its figurehead was an angelic-looking man wielding a spear, his expression one of fierce tranquility. Something about it cast an unpleasant shadow across Remus' heart, although he had no idea why. For the sort of creepy garbage you could find in pure-blooded wizarding households, it was innocuous, almost beautiful. And yet he didn't like it any more than Weston's cabinet with the stag fleeing a group of hunters.

He raised his eyes to the house, whose dark outline towered over the dormant garden. Not a single window was lit, but that didn't mean anything.

Thunder rumbled. He turned to see if he could trace the direction the storm was coming from, and his heart jumped into his throat.

Snape was standing down the garden path, a basket over one arm, wearing a winter-weight cloak and his grey muffler from last night. A few of his garden's magical plants still clung to greenness around him, but most of them had turned to brambles and ice. He was watching Remus, still and silent, his black eyes boring into him, even more monochromatic than his surroundings in the stark black of his robes, the straight sheet of his hair, the pallor of his skin.

Remus knew he should say something, but he couldn't find anything to say. His heart only kept thumping, but his mind was blank.

Snape glided toward him, with a smoothness somewhat spoiled by the crunch of wet gravel.

"Gryffindors really do rush in where angels fear to tread," he said in his half-whisper. Even though they were outside in the daytime, the sound of the sea against the shore, the trickle of the fountain, the softness of his voice created an odd sense of intimacy, as if they were the only two people in the world.

Remus found his own voice. "Time and again. Although you see that this time I came in under my own power."

"That is what I mean, Lupin. Even more of a Gryffindor move than normal. Just what do you think you're doing?"

"Well..." Remus felt his posture, voice, even his expression setting to 'disarming.' "I didn't think you'd invite me over anytime soon—it seemed that barging in was my only option."

"I see. There's that fascinating Gryffindor logic. You deduce—correctly—that I don't want to see you—no doubt going off something I said last night about not wishing to see anybody, least of all you; you even more correctly assume I'm not about to invite you over if I lived to be a hundred, and ergo you... come anyway. I begin to see why acting like fools seems such a sensible course of action to you lot, if that's how your brains work."

"Quite right, Severus." Remus adopted his most disarming smile, much more out of habit than any hope it would work. "You know, I'm very interested in Slytherin logic, too—I mean, I did deduce correctly that you don't want me coming around, and yet I was able to Apparate back here. That's fascinating, really it is."

Snape's eyes narrowed. The effect was really rather menacing.

"What do you want, Lupin?" he snapped. It sounded like dry leaves rubbing together.

"Do you get the papers?"

"I fail to see why I should abuse myself in that way."

Remus refused to smile. "But you know about the Potions mystery, don't you? Last night, you said national panic was hard to miss."

"So it is." Snape's eyes were still slitted. "Come to arrest me on suspect charges, have you?"

"I'm just wondering if you'd heard the latest. About the people catching on fire?"

Snape was completely still for a moment; then his eyes widened and narrowed again. "I see. So you _have_ come here for that."

Remus blinked. "Yes, I just said, didn't I?"

"When I found you, I thought you'd been hit by a furnace blast." Snape had a pair of pruning shears in his hand; he pointed them at Remus like a wand. "I knew I should have Obliviated you stupid. Are you with MLE? As unlikely as it is that such a prestigious department would let a werewolf muddy their glorious ranks—"

"I used to work for Accidents & Catastrophes." He tugged the satchel around to rest on his hip. "There are some newspapers in here. May I bring them out?"

Snape's cold eyes darted from Remus' face to the satchel. He pointed his wand at it; the flap flicked open and the two newspapers rustled out, but Snape did not take them, only hovered them in the air in front of him. Remus recognized the ad for Christmas Carolers on the back of the left; it was the paper with his own photograph on the front. Snape's eyes did not move across the text of the article; they stayed quite still, staring at one point on the paper.

Then he said softly, "Fire is one of only two known ways to kill a werewolf."

Remus felt something icy slither down his throat. "Funnily enough, I'm aware of that."

Snape's eyes flickered to him, then back to the article. "This says 'Remus Lupin, of the Significantly Catastrophic Division.' That's Accidents & Catastrophes. This article was printed yesterday, Lupin. How is it you only _used_ to work for them?"

"I resigned last night."

Snape actually looked him in the face. "You... resigned."

"As you say. Fire is only one of two known ways to kill a werewolf for good."

Snape stared at him a moment longer, and then again at the paper. "So you've resigned to save yourself. A Gryffindor's doing something sensible when his fair countrymen are dropping like flies—I'm more than a bit shocked. And yet it's unlikely you came here for a little catch-up." When he flicked his wand, the papers tucked themselves back into rectangles and dropped into Remus' satchel. "If you've come on some kind of vigilante interrogation, Lupin, you're barking up the wrong tree."

"Vigilante interview, perhaps. We've got all manner of Potions experts working on this thing day and night, not to mention all of Accidents & Catastrophes and half of MLE. Slughorn can give us a good account of the nation's student population for about sixty years, but the period from '81 to '97, '98 is your area of expertise, Severus, isn't it?"

Snape's face blanked. "You want to know about my students."

"I want to know if when you see this"—Remus fished out the paper of himself falling below the cliff line, a ball of fire unfurling a second later—"anyone comes to mind."

Snape stared at the paper again, still blank.

"I jumped off after a woman who'd just seen her husband killed. She'd read the papers; she knew she was next. She died in front of me, before we hit the water."

Emotion fissured across Snape's face; but then he hardened.

"I cannot tell you who may have done it," he said, his voice as cold as the sea had been when Remus had hit it after falling over thirty metres through the air. "I can only tell you that I have not." When he looked at Remus, it was with every sign of the old dislike. "Get gone, Lupin. And don't try to come back again. It may not be fire or silver, but you won't like what'll happen to you if you try."

"All right, Severus." Remus slung his satchel back behind his hip. "Thank you for talking with me." He put out his hand, but Snape only tucked his own hands inside his cloak.

Remus dropped his hand. "Take care of yourself, Severus."

He turned and left the garden, crunching back down the beach. He counted out the same number of paces as last night, then pulled open his satchel and folded the newspapers together. He pictured Snape's wicker basket with its cuttings from the garden.

" _Intromitto_ ," he murmured, circling his wand over the newspapers. They vanished.

Before Snape could find him and tear into him, Remus Apparated away, into the icy air.

* * *

 

The lights were on in his flat, even though he never left them on when he went out. Keys in hand, he found the door unlocked and two pairs of men's' shoes on the other side: Harry's trainers, and a pair of wizarding boots that belonged to—

_"Lancelot?"_

Sure enough, the young man was sitting in his kitchen with Harry, each nursing a cup of tea and some very strained small talk.

"Hello." Lancelot smiled; a wan, perfunctory flicker. His robes look slept-in, and his dark curls were crumpled, but he still would have turned heads.

"He was telling me you _resigned_." Harry glowered at Remus; but whether this was because of the news or the fact that it was news to Harry, Remus didn't know.

"It shocked everyone," Lancelot said to Harry, his smile subdued. Remus wondered how much of the truth this was really bending.

"Well, after everything, I thought it would be—more prudent," Remus said, returning to the sitting-room to remove his own shoes and charm his muddy tracks off the carpet.

"Of course it is," Harry said indignantly. "You've got Teddy to think about."

"Thank you, Harry. Is Cauther still filled with righteous wrath?" Remus smiled at Lancelot, who blushed.

"Who cares about him," he muttered. "He certainly doesn't care about anyone but himself." Then he sighed, pushing his teacup away. "I just came to see if you were... all right. I thought perhaps something else had happened that you wouldn't have told the Heads. Not that you have to tell me," he added quickly. "I just—wanted to see if..." He trailed off, looking embarrassed and more anxious than usual.

"I'm perfectly fine. Werewolves heal quickly enough."

Lancelot nodded, looking relieved. How odd it was for someone to look reassured because Remus was a werewolf and all right.

Remus looked between the two young men. There was a newspaper on the table, face down. Last night flashed into his memory, so strong it was almost blinding: everyone's tense silence and George handing the paper over, holding Remus' gaze, Harry's haunted Lily-eyes. Now Snape's face as he looked at the photograph of Remus falling...

"There's something more, isn't there?"

Harry and Lancelot's gaze darted over one another's, then away, as if they hadn't meant for that to happen.

"It's—it's getting worse," Harry said hesitantly. "Even than just this morning—I don't know if you saw—?" Lancelot was staring at his hands, a crease between his eyebrows that reminded Remus of Snape.

"I saw this morning's _Daily Prophet_."

"Oh." Harry looked almost relieved. "That's all. I mean—so far. Ninety people, though... most of them in Azkaban... how is he doing it?"

Lancelot just looked very sad.

"God." Remus exhaled, passing his hand over his face. "We have to figure out why this is happening. It's just getting worse and worse." _I have to get Severus to help... I have to—I shouldn't have given up so quickly—_

"The sooner everyone figures it out," Lancelot said sadly, "the sooner it will stop." He sighed and pushed himself up from the table. "I have to get back to work. I just wanted to make sure you were—still well—after everything."

"Thank you," Remus said, surprised by Lancelot's sincerity. "You as well."

"Good bye, Mr. Potter," Lancelot said, surprising Remus again; Lancelot was a good ten years older than Harry, and most people acted as if they and Harry were old friends. But there was nothing in Lancelot's voice but kind respect. "It was a pleasure finally to meet you."

"Thanks." Harry shook his hand. "It was good to meet you, too."

Lancelot look surprised but faintly gratified. He smiled at them both, although it was only the shade of a real one.

Remus accompanied him to the front door, since that was more polite, even though it was only about five steps from the kitchen.

"You're still investigating, aren't you?" Lancelot asked as Remus' hand went to the door knob. "Even though you resigned to their faces."

"Don't let it get out," Remus said, smiling even though he didn't want to.

"I heard you fought in the wars," Lancelot said in a low voice. "Even though you had many reasons not to. It is like you still to be helping, even though it is so dangerous. Too few people are like you."

Remus blinked. Lancelot's hand rested briefly on his arm. One last flickering smile at him, and then Lancelot ducked into the pattering rain. He did not look back as he disappeared down the steps to the street, sinking from the lamplight into the umbra of the city darkness.

 _How bizarre_ , Remus thought, closing the door. That was twice the boy had instigated a touch like that...

"I think he fancies you."

He turned to Harry, who was looking, beneath his pallor, faintly amused.

"Very funny," Remus said.

 _Honestly_ , _Severus would mock you to high heaven for that pathetic drivel._

"He doesn't fancy me," he added, which wasn't any higher up in the Department of Non-Pathetic Comebacks.

"Suit yourself," Harry said, not looking as if his faith in his own theory had been shaken even a bit. Small wonder, if that's all Remus could come up with.

"I always found it improbable enough that anyone could fancy me at all, let alone one—now two, if your madness is to be believed—attractive people under thirty."

"Try fifty people under thirty," Harry said, grinning at him now.

"Did you hit your head in George's shop?"

Harry actually laughed. "Remember teaching at Hogwarts? The girls were all mad after Lockhart—"

"I'm not Lockhart," Remus said, horrified in more ways than one.

"No, you're about a million times better. And now you've got Teddy... well." Harry shrugged, his smile almost apologetic. "You should hear Hermione and Hannah Abbot and their _spew_ society go on about you. They're supposed to be talking about house-elf rights, but they spend about fifteen minutes of every meeting gossiping about you."

"I don't know how I'm going to show my face in public ever again," Remus said. Harry laughed for a good ten seconds. "You're having me on, aren't you?" It was the exact sort of thing Sirius and James would have done.

"No way!" Harry said indignantly. "Ask Hermione next time you see her, and watch and see if she doesn't go all tomato-red—"

"I'll pass," Remus said. "I'm going to order some curry from Shiva's, d'you want any?"

Harry smiled faintly but shook his head. "Thanks, but I'm actually supposed to be having dinner with Ginny in a bit—I just came by to see what was going on, after I saw..." His eyes flitted to the paper, now turned face-down so that an advert for Christmas Carolers twinkled harmlessly up at the ceiling.

"I heard what that Lancelot guy said," Harry said quietly. "That you're still going after this potions thing."

Remus busied himself rooting around on the mantel for the Floo pot, even though it was right in plain sight. "Yes."

Harry was silent for a few moments, while Remus tried not to feel like a coward for hiding his face in his Floo pot. When Harry spoke, however, he didn't sound approving or disapproving, only thoughtful. "Why'd you resign, then?"

 _Several reasons. One of them was to do with figuring out how the hell I convince Severus Snape to help me._ But he couldn't tell Harry about that. It wasn't that he didn't think Harry couldn't keep a secret—he could; he was actually a rather secretive boy—but if Harry found out that Snape was alive, the dear boy would only redouble his efforts to get him exonerated, and that would churn up public interest none of them needed. Particularly not at the moment.

So he chose the other truth.

"I want to protect Teddy," he said, looking out the tiny sitting-room window. In the glare from the kitchen lights, all he could see was darkness. "In every sense of the word. But it's... safer if I do it this way. I can't do nothing and expect it to be solved on its own—"

"Of course not. That's not who you are," Harry said, simply but sincerely. "I think it's good, I really do. I think there are a lot of people out there who don't deserve to have it as good as they do," he added quietly, "for everything they did during the War, while we were all fighting and... and dying. But nobody deserves this happening to them."

Remus watched Harry's face sharpen with determination. "I want to help."

That was what Remus had been expecting. He even had a task ready to keep Harry busy.

"Excellent," he said, finally turning with a smile, "because I have something you can do." Harry brightened, looking both pleased and surprised, as though he'd been expecting to be told to stay out of it. "Something we'll need a couple of conniving Weasleys for, too."

* * *

 

"That bloody werewolf," Severus burst out, "that daft, tufty-headed, senile—Remus _bloody_ , sodding Lupin!"

He'd locked Lupin out of the wards with such a fervor that the foundations of the house trembled, but what he really wanted to do was wring his bloody werewolf neck. Severus had told him in no uncertain terms to get the fuck out and stay the fuck out, he wanted no part of his fucking Potions Mystery, and what had the sly bastard done? He'd enchanted his newspapers, loaded with photographs of people in various states of grotesque deformity, to show up in Severus' basket of cuttings—the damned, devious, treacherous, bloody werewolf bastard.

Severus wasn't sure why this enraged him so much. Perhaps it was further proof—as if he needed any—that Gryffindors did whatever they fucking pleased, regardless of what others wanted; particularly if those others were Slytherins entitled to their fucking peace and quiet as they burrowed into middle age. Severus had told Lupin to fuck off, not once but twice, and Lupin had took that to mean "swan around my private property and shove gruesome mysteries in my face."

"Fucking Gryffindors," Snape hissed, because he couldn't snap anymore. Right now Lupin was probably congratulating himself on his little measure, thinking that Severus deserved to be involved for trying to hide like a cowardly Slytherin snake.

 _Fucking_ Gryffindors.

Severus banged about the house in a foul mood. He wound up in the library composing a vicious treatise on Remus Lupin's very many character flaws. By the time he had decimated Lupin's intellect, shredded his morality, and consigned his character to infamy, his encomium covered fifteen pages of Muggle notebook paper (front and back) and he felt a tiny bit better.

In this slightly calmer state, he found his gaze straying to the newspapers that had been the start of all this; in particular the one where Lupin was leaping off a cliff after a woman plunging out of sight. Lupin had surely known what was going to happen before he jumped, and yet he'd done it anyway and caught a face full of fire. He was probably luckier than he knew to have jumped down into freezing cold _water._

Severus frowned. Of all the world's stupidity, a Gryffindor's was the most incomprehensible.

He saw with a pang of displeasure that while he'd been mulling over Lupin's incontrovertible Gryffindorness, he'd sketched a pair of eyes in the margin of his paper. That figured. As much as he'd always wished it were otherwise, thoughts of Gryffindors always stood hand-in-hand with thoughts of Lily. He must be really out of practice, though, because the shape of the eyes was all wrong—and the eyebrows, too. In fact, they didn't look like Lily's eyes at all...

With a jolt of horror, he realized they were Lupin's eyes. He'd drawn _Lupin's eyes._

He felt like crossing himself to ward off evil spirits, but settled for tearing all the papers into quarters and chucking them in the grate, where the fire claimed them, turning them to ash.

Damn. He'd meant to send that letter to Lupin, too.

He looked at the newspapers. They ought to go in the fire, too, every last page.

Disconcertingly, they stayed on the table.

Severus slumped back in his chair. What was the matter with him?

"What _isn't_ the matter, is more like," he muttered.

He ought to have Obliviated Lupin last night; he knew that as well as anything. Not doing it had been a blatant lapse of good sense. And even if he'd been so fuckwitted as to leave Lupin remembering he was alive, he should have closed the wards so the man could never have found him again. But he'd done neither thing, and then Lupin had come back, which was almost as bizarre as Severus' acting all contrary to common sense. Except that Lupin was a Gryffindor, and it was so expected they'd do baffling things that you could set your watch to it.

All Severus could figure was that he'd wanted Lupin to know he was alive and where to find him. What he didn't understand was why in all of Hell he wanted that. He and Lupin had never been—well, anything. They were only one-half civil, and it was all Lupin's half. Severus couldn't even honestly say they were enemies; certainly not anymore, now that Potter's righteous, Gryffindorian indignation had softened to a point of trying to praise Severus through the fucking _Quibbler_. Severus sighed; what an enormous fathead that boy was...

Twenty years ago, Severus would have said with utter certainty that he and Lupin were bitterest enemies. As a teenager, he'd seen Lupin as part of the Marauder hive mind. How he'd loathed every one of them, separately and together... Severus had looked forward his whole life to Hogwarts, knowing with every fiber of belief that it was going to be different than the world he'd grown up in. There he'd be among equals; he wouldn't get made fun of for his clothes or his hair; no one would try to hurt him for being a nasty, unnatural little freak. At Hogwarts magic was encouraged, power was respected, and Severus would distinguish himself as a great wizard, as something other than a miserable little monster.

And then he'd got to Hogwarts, and James Potter and Sirius Black and their auxiliaries had made Hogwarts almost identical to everything Severus had tried to escape from. He was ugly, he was awkward; they were popular and admired; and he was as much a nasty little freak as ever, because he _existed_ and was an evil, slimy Slytherin snake. They had tormented and despised him, and Severus had loathed them with all his heart; with as much loathing as the four of them had for him, so that his heart filled with four times as much hatred.

He had thought you couldn't hate any more than that, until they'd taken Lily away from him. He'd watched her laugh with them, grow close to them, and he'd really thought hearts could break as much from hatred as from love.

Three years later, after he'd betrayed both Lily and himself by repeating that prophecy, he'd known there was a spy close to her; the Dark Lord knew too much. Severus had spied for the fucking Order, risking his life, however little it was worth, to be part of the net keeping Lily safe—but it hadn't been enough, and for twelve years his loathing for Black, Potter and all the rest had been rejuvenated by her death. He'd given her up to them, had entrusted her safety to them, and they'd let her die. Oh, at the time everyone was vilifying Black, but Severus blamed them all: Potter and Pettigrew for not seeing the traitor right under their noses and Lupin for abetting him, the werewolf lover of a mongrel. Male-male relationships had always been kept under tight wraps in their world; but Severus hadn't spent nearly all his life furtively loving Lily to the point of desperation without being able to recognize the signs, and they had been all over Black and Lupin since seventh year, as stark as newsprint. If Black had been a traitor, he'd reasoned, then Lupin, his lover, had known; he had been on it too, no doubt. Severus had believed this wholeheartedly, for twelve years after they had murdered Lily between them. He'd known Lupin must have helped him break out of Azkaban somehow... Severus would have fed them both to the Dementors and rejoiced.

But then Black had turned out only to be a completely wretched idiot, as much as Potter had... They had killed Lily in their arrogance, believing Lupin had been the spy after all, overlooking Pettigrew entirely. Severus wondered how Lupin had felt when he'd learned the truth: that they'd switched Secret Keepers and not told him because they'd believed he was the one who'd sold them out. Lupin had believed it of Black, but after the fact; after he'd had the evidence of Potter and Lily's deaths... Lupin had had an excuse... but Black, Potter—what had their excuse been?

When Severus had learned the truth, he'd tormented himself for weeks afterward with visions of what might have happened if Black and Potter had made Lupin the Secret Keeper instead. Surely Lily would have lived. If only they hadn't been fools... if only they'd trusted the right person...

He'd wondered if Lupin had also lain awake, wondering that.

Perhaps that's when his enmity for Lupin had begun to fade. He wasn't sure. It had never really troubled him, the slow slide into not hating Lupin, into just thinking he was—rather bizarre. Because Lupin was. He was like some younger werewolf version of Albus: unflappable, always armed with little smiles and talk about the weather, offering tea instead of candy. Lupin was _nice_. He was nice to _Severus_. Severus wasn't fooled into believing this meant Lupin liked him, but for anyone to be nice to him at all, and not because they were just worried he'd bite their nose off, was a strange turn of events. Most people believed Severus didn't need or want kindness because he had none to give. Most people were fucking morons. Who didn't want someone to be kind to them?

But Lupin was kind to almost everyone. Even looking back on their teenaged years, one couldn't rightly say Lupin was cruel; he had simply failed to stop his friends from being hateful little pricks. Well, Lily hadn't been able to stop Severus from being exactly who he thought he wanted, and he'd loved her unto madness.

And now here they were, the only two left. Not of the whole year, but of those who'd joined the wars...

Severus stopped. As he went over the list in his head, the truth of that statement settled on his heart like a load of cold ashes. Of everyone who'd fought for the Order in both wars, only he and Lupin were left living.

Perhaps that was the reason Severus had let him in. Narcissa was an affectionate correspondent; she invited him to stay with her in France every other letter, at least; Draco liked him as much as he was capable of liking anyone; and Lucius was—well, he was Lucius. You didn't expect too much of him, really. Europe had given Severus the comfort of anonymity, where no one knew him for a freak or a traitor or a murderer, but simply one of thousands of strangers on the street, on a train, along a river. The Malfoys were old friends, and the Muggles on the Continent knew him as nobody either special or infamous.

But Lupin was the only one who had fought for the same thing twice unto dying. He was the only one who knew what it was like to outlive people you loved, not once, but twice. He knew what it was like to lose everything and go on living.

Severus sat in the library for a long time, within arm's reach of the newspapers, while the fire sank to embers in the hearth. He watched photograph-Lupin jump off that cliff after the woman, again, and again, and again, until darkness ebbed up to the rafters, and sank everything from sight.


	9. Chapter 9

_December 18, One Week Till Christmas_

"There is something wrong with you," Severus told his reflection in the spotted mirror. Because he was talking to himself, he only wound up getting the same thing back.

"Something very, very wrong," he said.

He uncorked a small vial, wabout the length of his finger and filled with a curl of cinnamon-colored hairs. He shook a single hair into his palm and dropped it into the glass of thick, mud-colored liquid sitting on the sink rim. With a hiss, it churned and frothed into an opalescent caramel color. He knew it would taste like maple varnish. He had Polyjuiced into this man before.

"Cheers," he muttered, and downed it. The familiar feeling of the potion scalding through his veins wasn't even a week old; he'd turned into this man many times, the most recent being his return to England, to house-sit for his mother. He grimaced as his skin roiled and his features remodeled themselves, and kept his eyes shut until it all stopped.

When he opened his eyes, he saw he was who he'd intended to be: early thirties, curly dark brown hair, brown complexion, dark eyes, features of a distinct handsomeness; the kind of face people looked twice at in pleasure. He had spent weeks searching for the right man, someone of similar height and build to himself, since he didn't want to carry around two sets of clothes or feel too foreign when hiding in plain sight. Good looks hadn't been a requisite, but when he'd seen this man, he'd known he wanted to change into him for a while. It was probably nothing more than vanity, but Severus liked to think that, most of all, he appreciated the simple, comfortable pleasure of having strangers smile at him as if they wanted him to smile back. Only Lily and Albus had ever looked at him like that. Well, Lupin, too, but that was only from politeness. It was fake. It didn't count.

He checked his clothes over in the mirror, but briskly; he hadn't turned into Lucius. Perhaps he should have chosen something more inconspicuous than his Italian clothes, which were quite nice. In England, it would probably be better to look workmanlike. Well, he didn't have anything like that; all his English clothes were wizarding robes. He'd make do for today. He might not do this again, or he might leave the country altogether and write his mother a contrite apology from an undisclosed location, like the heart of the Pyrenees.

"Is Master going out?"

Severus' hand twitched toward his wand, but he stopped. It was a truly heroic effort, though.

"I don't think it's any of your business where I'm going," he told Nitty as he stowed a cache of Polyjuice and half the cinnamon-colored hairs inside his coat pockets.

From the bathroom doorway, the old house-elf eyed him with every bit of her usual loathing, plus a bit extra. "Just as Master pleases," she said. "Nitty only wonders if Master is aware of looking like a nasty Muggle."

"And I wonder if you could fly if I drop-kicked you out the window. Get the fuck out."

"Master uses nasty Muggle words, but Nitty pretends not to hear," she said primly. With a crack of displaced air, she vanished.

How in God's name his mother had stood living there for the past twenty-three years, Severus would never understand if he lived to be a hundred. At least her wretched aunt had finally popped off, but it was bad enough being stuck with the damned house-elf.

He tugged his cap down over his Polyjuiced curls and let himself out onto the first-floor balcony. A Prince could Apparate through the wards from anyplace on the property, once outside the house. He dug in his coat pocket for the map charmed to Lupin's location, the result of a Dark spell as nasty to perform as it was handy to master: it could track a person anywhere in the world so long as you possessed a photograph they had given you.

Severus looked at the map, where a dot glowed a pulsing red—like a heartbeat, because it was—in the center of London.

He held the place in his mind, and Apparated through the ice and fog to Camden Road.

He opened his eyes to the damp bricks and assorted trash that designated alleys everywhere. Pulling out his map, he traced his wand over the parchment, forming the thread that would link his location to Lupin's. They were only two blocks apart.

Severus memorized the path on the map and then folded it away; it was better not to advertise his magic, even though Lupin lived on a well-known wizarding block. Severus was pretending to be an inconspicuous stranger, after all. So as not to get arrested and strung up by his entrails and so forth.

He was struck not by how different everything was, but by how much he noticed all the differences. There was no open water here, only the tall blocks of flat in dark brick, strung with telephone wires and antennae and wet, icy clotheslines. Instead of his family's silent, sneering portraits, the colorful riot of television programs flickered down at him. He could hear the rumble of cars instead of the sounds of the sea, smell petrol instead of salt. He didn't prefer it, necessarily, but it was... different.

When he got to the magical block where Lupin lived, things were different still.

Blinds were drawn everywhere. Some people were obviously in the process of moving, while others seemed shut up in their homes. A set of fairy lights blinked disconsolately in a window high on the top floor of the building next to him, half the string dead. The faces he passed were all tight with fear, anxiety, suppressed panic. A water main had busted, pumping icy water down the middle of the street.

About halfway down the wizarding block, he paused at the foot of a stone staircase that folded in on itself five times. Lupin's flat was the second one up. It had a forest-green door and a pine wreath nailed beneath a window of frosted glass.

The door was opening.

He pretended to be checking his watch. He heard the clunks of a door shutting and being locked, the scrape of heavy soles on concrete steps, and then Lupin sloshed past him, close enough for Severus to feel the stronger heat that had always come off Lupin and every werewolf he'd ever met.

Lupin was heading toward a road at the other end of the block... and a witch was watching Severus with narrowed eyes. Shit. Showing up as a stranger on a magical block—he'd been so preoccupied with concealing himself from Lupin that he'd overlooked that very obvious point. Apparently Lupin wasn't the only one who was out of practice.

The woman's suspicious face reminded him that he had come here with no concrete plan. From that moment when he'd looked down on Lupin's unconscious face on his grandfather's miserable beach, it was as if something had crawled inside him with prospecting tools, hammering and tapping at his bones, until all the regular trivialities he'd found to fill his days were picked apart into nothingness. Everything he tried to read turned into words of burning and blinded and mud; last night his dreams had been filled with panicked mobs and hysteria and drowning; when his mind wandered, it walked down paths snarled with questions that all ended with _Why?_

He wanted to blame Lupin, who was now headed down a sidewalk cluttered with Muggle shoppers, who'd crashed onto his beach and shoved information under his nose. But Lupin was only part of the reason he couldn't sleep, only partly why he'd stepped out of that dreadful house wearing this stranger's face. It wasn't that Severus had discovered altruism this late in life. It was that there were so many hollow depths inside him that everything seemed to free-fall forever through his heart.

Lupin appeared to be going to the grocery. How thrilling. Nonetheless, Severus went in after him, following a group of Muggle university students through the sliding doors, into a tiny Muggle market filled with rotating racks of tourist postcards, cigarettes and gambling scratch-off cards, tacky packaged food and spirits. After a couple moments of scrutiny, Severus spotted Lupin in the back of the small store, looking through the array of various milk types that Muggles loved to confuse wizards with.

He pretended to be perusing the wine shelves as Lupin piled a rather obscene amount of food in his basket. Severus recalled how much he'd eaten during his year as professor and at Black's house. He'd always idly wondered whether Lupin just starved most of the time, or if he spent all his wages on food. He could have believed either. How was the man going to eat now that he'd resigned his job? Vigilantism didn't pay.

 _No_ , Severus thought, _that's crime._

Lupin was now doing that bizarre thing Severus had seen Muggle women do: examining a carton of eggs. He would slide them gently out of their spaces with long, thin fingers and hold them up, peering at them through the hair that fell into his eyes. He needed a haircut. It had to be either laziness or indifference; the rest of him was too shabby for it to be artful. In fact, a Muggle woman in a business suit was regarding him doubtfully as she took down a jug of that dreadful-looking grayish milk, probably thinking Lupin was a vagrant.

Someone brushed against Severus' arm; one of the Muggle university students. She smiled at him. "That one any good?" she asked. For a stupid second Severus thought she meant Lupin, but then he realized he'd been fiddling with a bottle of wine.

"It tastes like sewage," he said, wishing Polyjuice also changed your voice; but it didn't, so his came out, as usual, soft and almost intimate. She grinned, but he shoved the bottle back on the shelf and walked off without ceremony, both to get away from her and because Lupin's eggs had passed inspection and he was toting his groceries up the aisle to the checkout counter.

Figuring that with arms full of groceries, Lupin could only go back home, Severus was in no hurry to follow him. For a time he drifted around Camden Road. The place was lurid, the Muggles effervescently manic, heavily armed in full anticipation of Christmas. It was... only a week away, he realized. Shut up in his grandfather's old house, he hadn't paid any attention. He didn't get the papers, and he'd told Narcissa not to write to him there, as a precautionary measure, so he didn't even have the dates at the top of her letters as a reference. Nitty certainly didn't keep the holiday spirit.

This would be the second Christmas since the War. It was almost a new millennia.

It was sometimes hard to believe he'd survived to end up here. Fit in body, that was; free of imprisonment. Of course, that was because he was in hiding, but when he'd opened his eyes to a light blue ceiling enchanted with painted clouds, Narcissa trickling into his line of sight, it had taken him almost a week to believe he had not only survived, but escaped.

 _And now here you are_ , he thought, _running along old rails._

He thought of just Apparating back to his grandfather's house. But even as the possibility crossed his mind, he knew it was only an idle thought. He wasn't going anywhere.

Except back to Lupin's flat.

* * *

 

It had been a long time since Severus had been at the tenuous mercy of a full Body Bind. The feeling of wanting to kill Lupin for it, however, was more recently familiar.

Severus heard the door click shut. He craned his neck to see; Lupin's his eyes were bright and wary and his face was grim. He had his wand in his hand, spell-ready; the tip was glowing faintly with blue-white light.

"Very hospitable of you, Lupin," Severus snarled in his wretchedly weak voice. He wanted to roll onto his back but Lupin probably wouldn't let him. "I can see I've still got a lot to learn from Gryffindors about manners."

Lupin's mouth fell open slightly. "S—" He caught himself, pressing his lips together, and said grimly, "Who are you supposed to be?"

Severus narrowed his eyes. "A random Muggle."

"I mean," Lupin gave him a pointed look, "why do you think I should know you?"

Severus sneered at him. "Oh, I see, this is part of your vaunted heroics—protecting my identity and so forth, as you promised. I'm really very touched. You know I'm Severus Snape, you blithering idiot."

Lupin gave him a pitying look. If he wasn't just being as thick as a fence post, it was a decent act. "Severus Snape died years ago," he said coolly.

Severus did realize it was perverse of him to want to kick Lupin for now being cautious, but he did really fucking want to.

"Lupin, your Patronus is a sodding snow leopard. Whenever anyone sees it, the very first thing they say is, 'Oh, I thought it would be a wolf, you know, because—'"

Lupin blinked. Had he really been in doubt that he had Severus trapped on his floor?

But instead of releasing him like he had bloody well ought, Lupin asked, "What's your Patronus? If you are Severus."

"Nobody but Dumbledore knew what it was," Severus said with sneering frigidity. "I refused to communicate with it."

"Severus, what on earth were you _thinking?"_ Lupin said, his eyebrows knitting. "There's a murderer running around poisoning half the nation, and you show up at my door, in disguise, without any warning at all?"

He canceled out the Body Bind, but either by (un)happy accident or from intuition, he moved away from Severus as he did, putting himself outside kicking range. Bastard.

"No wonder he hasn't been caught if you lot think he's just going to show up at the front fucking door," Severus said, picking himself up from Lupin's carpet.

"I didn't," Lupin said, as if he was working hard not to roll his eyes. "But I'm not the nation's most popular person right now, and I—"

"Because you tried to save some woman from dying?" Severus said, honestly bewildered.

"Because I turned up a day later without a scratch on me," Lupin said, his face unreadable. "You may have missed the very well-researched articles that were circulating back in '98? About what a monster I obviously am—"

A memory flashed up: Narcissa chatting at him— _They say the werewolf survived, it's really rather freakish—of course, they'll not let it have the baby now Nymphadora has died, and they're quite right, you can't trust them, certainly not to take care of a child..._

He'd forgotten that Lupin had a child. Narcissa's great-nephew. It was bewildering on more than one level.

But all he said was, "Ah. So you thought I was here to _enact revenge_ on you?"

Lupin blinked at him, and then looked _amused._ "Maybe so. Or maybe you're here about the Potions mystery?" he asked, like he was barely refraining from laughing.

Severus was glad for his dignity's sake that he'd picked a somewhat darker-complected Muggle. The parallel between this meeting and their first was suddenly all too obvious, even down to one being bound at the mercy of the other. "How _really_ amusing."

Lupin laughed once. Then he stowed his wand away, the stupid Gryffindor dolt. "What _are_ you doing here, Severus?"

Severus was tempted to hex him, both for the Body Bind and to teach him a lesson about disarming himself in testy situations—oh, and for the newspapers. He didn't, though. He supposed he just wasn't in the mood. Speaking of the newspapers...

He pulled them out of his coat and dropped them onto Lupin's coffee table. "I rather thought you wanted me to come. Or did this have some other message?"

"No," Lupin said, with an infuriating lack of looking ashamed of himself. "I did want you to help—I just thought it was a pretty long shot." He looked at Severus, curiously appraising. "But you could have just sent me a list of your students. You didn't have to come all the way here yourself. Of course, I appreciate that you did—"

Severus wondered if hexing Lupin would get him shutting up. He decided to try the approach requiring less energy: "Do shut up, Lupin."

Lupin just rolled his eyes at him. Then he smiled one of his old smiles, full of charming sweetness, the sort that had made everyone fall ridiculously in love with him. Everyone who wasn't Severus. "Tea or coffee?"

"Itr makes no difference. I reserve the right to spit it out if its foul."

"You're such a charming guest, Severus. Do take a seat."

Severus took the opportunity to nose around Lupin's flat. It was very small and furnished in a hodgepodge fashion, with scant fixings of furniture that had all seen better decades. Beyond that, there was only a kind of alcove that acted as buffer between the public rooms and the separate rooms of the bedroom and bathroom. Everything was clean, but organization didn't have anything to do with it: the bookshelf was stacked with pot plants and photographs instead of books, which had been arranged in towers around the room, some with more pot plants and photographs on them.

One of the photographs was of Lily—on her wedding day. Severus felt as if his stomach had been sucked into a black hole. He sat down on Lupin's sofa and grabbed the television remote control so he wouldn't have to stumble across any more emotional equivalents of having his head turned on backwards.

The television screen sprang to life with some musical version of 'A Christmas Carol.' Twirling Victorians were singing about the magic of Christmas and love. He wasn't sure if this was any worse than the photograph of Lily glowing with happiness, surrounded by the fucking Marauders.

"They were playing that yesterday," Lupin said, coming over to the sofa with a tray balanced on his arm. Severus was almost glad to see him, if it got him out of his own head.

He accepted the cup of tea Lupin handed him in a powder-blue mug with a chipped handle, the nick worn to smoothness over time. "I suppose there will be a nauseating volume of Christmas tripe running all the week."

"That was a very Scrooge-like remark."

Lupin had brought a packet of iced Muggle biscuits in garish red, green and white packaging. They were shaped like little Christmas trees, with matching sprinkles. He split open the cellophane packaging while Severus added sugar and milk and honey to his tea. Lupin had brought everything he liked to put in it. Had he remembered? Severus couldn't see how he would have—but judging by the expression of amused bewilderment on Lupin's face as he stared at Severus' tea, he hadn't remembered after all; the honey was just a coincidence.

"Do you want any tea with that sugar?" Lupin asked. This was hardly the first time Severus had heard that inane joke, but something—maybe it was the way Lupin's eyes were laughing—made Severus strangely not want to pour the tea all over his trousers.

"That makes it the thousandth time I've heard that tripe of a joke."

Lupin laughed. "Well, I can see why. And people tell me _I_ have a sweet tooth."

"You do," Severus said, with a pointed look at the Christmas tree biscuits.

Lupin only smiled. "Teddy likes these," he said, as if that explained everything.

"Who's—" Even before the word was out of his mouth, Severus' gaze fell on a photograph pushed to the edge of the coffee table, of Nymphadora holding a very tiny baby, her hair cycling through gleaming colors of silver and gold. As Severus stared at the photograph, the baby's hair turned indigo, then green like river water, and then blue again, like tropical beaches.

"Yes," Lupin said. "My son."

Severus did not want to look at Lupin's face. He had no idea what to say. For lack of anything useful, he took one of the Christmas biscuits.

"He's all right," Lupin said, in a slightly surprised voice. Why surprised? "He—just lives with his grandmother."

"I know," Severus said without thinking. _Damn._ His eyes darted to Lupin, but he'd only added confusion to his surprise.

"You know? How?"

Well, there was no reason to conceal it. There wasn't even any reason for Severus to feel strange over knowing random facts about Lupin's personal life. Even though he did feel strange, there was no reason to. "Narcissa."

"Oh." Lupin blinked. "That's right, she's Andromeda's sister. I... didn't know she cared."

"That doesn't surprise me," Severus said. When Lupin's expression creased, he felt bizarrely compelled to elaborate: "Narcissa is... Narcissa. Even Lucius hardly ever knows what she's thinking." Of course, Lucius rarely cared what anyone else was thinking unless he could use it to manipulate them.

"You still have contact with her, then?"

"I didn't come here to chat about my personal correspondence. I—oh hell." He set down his teacup; his hand was beginning to shake, the tremors from the de-transformation running beneath his skin. He hated this part.

"Polyjuice wearing off?" Lupin said.

Severus wanted to deliver a snappy retort, but all he could manage was "Ugh" as his original skin, body, features and hair reasserted themselves with a feeling like a million lice surging across his body. He scrubbed at his face out of reflex, finally removing his cap to rake his hands back through his hair. When he opened his eyes, Lupin was sipping his tea as if his guests frequently turned into other people during tea. Perhaps they did.

"More biscuits?" Lupin held out the carton. They were oddly palatable, so Severus took one again.

"That Muggle anyone in particular?" Lupin asked.

"Not that I'm aware of. Did you really think he'd come here to kill you?"

"Not kill, no..." Lupin drained his teacup, then removed a new tea packet from the tin and slit it open. "I didn't tell you the whole of why I resigned," he said, dropping the tea bag into his cup, and then tapping the tea kettle with his wand to reheat it.

"Well?" Severus asked, as steam curled into the air.

"Well, for one thing, I suddenly found myself... rather preoccupied. I'm not very good at following rules, you know." Lupin smiled slightly. For a moment, Severus' imagination made the watery daylight glint on the silver in Lupin's hair, as if forming an aureole; the halo of a false saint.

"You shock me," he said.

Lupin's smile strengthened. "But there were some people who saw the fact that I'd... come back to be not so much a werewolf thing as... inside help."

Severus considered this. It was supremely stupid. "That's the daftest thing I've heard in a good long while."

"The good people at the Ministry of Magic aren't known for their stellar powers of thought," Lupin murmured, eating three biscuits in a row.

"If you were working with the bastard, you wouldn't have shown up perfectly fit. He wouldn't have allowed it."

Lupin looked at him curiously. "No?"

"Lupin, take a look at what's bloody well in front of you." Severus pointed at the newspapers—with a biscuit. Not intentional, that part. He heroically ignored the look of amusement on Lupin's face. "Even the Ministry isn't so inept as to miss every single clue laid by a complete idiot. This person, whoever he is, is, unfortunately, a genius."

"That's what Slughorn said," Lupin said with a thoughtfulness that Severus found unaccountably irritating.

"Well, if _Slughorn_ said it, I suppose we'll take it as gospel."

"Two separate opinions on the same thing? From the two people in the country who both know Potions best, I'd wager—yes, I'll believe it to be going on with. I'm inclined to agree, if it makes you feel any better."

"I don't give a damn," Severus retorted. Lupin only offered him more biscuits. He was just like Albus. The bastards.

"Shall I tell you why I agree he's a genius?" Without waiting for Severus' retort, he said, "We've been suffering the effects of this potion for eight days and we still have no idea how he's getting it to anyone, including inmates in Azkaban. Even though he's poisoned over twenty thousand people."

"It's probably something so obvious you're overlooking it. You need to figure out what all the victims have in common."

"That's what I thought, too, but the victims just keep coming,. We get more every day—well, almost—nothing's developed so far today..."

Severus frowned, thinking of the statistics Lupin had given him in the altered newspaper. He grabbed that one and opened it up. "It started last Friday with people's heads twisting around, didn't it?"

"Yes. At a dinner party."

"And over the weekend, you got more heads twisting, and then several hundred of those started vomiting mud. The numbers climbed on Monday, and the following Tuesday you had large numbers of people whose eyes turned back in their sockets—and then on Wednesday..."

He could see the outline of Lupin's front-page photograph through the thin newspaper.

"Yes," Lupin said quietly. "In the time I was—recuperating, forty-five people... immolated."

"But only ninety total?" Severus checked the other paper. "Have there been any more since yesterday?" (Lupin shook his head.) "Have you had any resurgence of the other symptoms—the head twisting or others—since the combustion started?"

Lupin blinked. "No," he said, as if he'd only just realized that. "We haven't."

Severus scanned the paragraph naming the husband and wife whose house Lupin had nearly died at on Wednesday. "Aloysius and Artemisia Dent," he read. "Dolores Umbridge. Petrus Rackharrow. Quentin Yarwell. All important—or once important—figures in the magical community." There, right there... something about that...

"Do you have a complete record of everyone who combusted?" he asked Lupin.

"No, I resigned, but I—"

Someone knocked on the front door. Lupin twisted in his chair while Severus slopped tea on himself. A dark shape shimmered on the other side of the frosted glass.

"Oh no." Lupin blanched as the rectangle of glass glowed golden.

"Wards?" Severus hissed, flicking his wand into his hand.

"No, worse." Lupin jumped up from his chair. "That's Harry."

Severus probably blanched, too. "Motherf—"

"Hide in the bedroom, he won't go in there."

"Get rid of the tea tray!" Severus hissed. The flat was so small, he was in the bedroom in three strides. He heard the tea tray clattering as it whisked itself into the kitchen and got the bedroom door shut in time for Lupin to open his front door and let in...

"Hi, Remus!" Potter's voice was nastily familiar, but it was warm with affection, which Severus had hardly ever heard it be. Not within his earshot, at any rate. "We come bearing gifts."

"We hope you haven't got tired of Indian food." That was Granger. Christ, this was going to be some bloody Gryffindor reunion.

"I'm never tired of any kind of food," Lupin said with warm sincerity, in the voice of one who was so well-mannered it could only come from some innate wellspring of niceness. "If you'll go ahead and start laying it out on the table, I'll get drinks... what would you like?"

Potter and Granger murmured requests over the sound of shuffling, clanking, and crinkling. Severus could hear everything perfectly through Lupin's paper-thin door and walls. Good thing Lupin was a wizard; otherwise he'd probably be kept up at all hours by the daily living of his neighbors.

"I don't know about you, but I'm starving," Potter was saying. "I'm not black-hole starving—or Remus-starving, in other words, but—"

"Just for that, you have to give me half of your food," Lupin said. Severus imagined the smile that would be on his face. "Go ahead and serve yourselves—I need to change socks right quick, I stepped in some water I dropped in the kitchen..."

Severus retreated into the corner of Lupin's tiny bedroom, near the chest of drawers, so he wouldn't get hit with the door. Lupin came inside and flicked on the light switch at the wall, illuminating a triangle network of lamps around the room. As he shut the door behind himself, he raised his eyebrows at Severus in a question, coming over to the chest of drawers. The top drawer was full of socks in little balls.

"Well?" Lupin whispered as he rooted noisily through his socks. "You can get out the window onto the fire escape and Apparate from there—"

"It's an unjustifiable pain in the arse to get from my grandfather's house to here." Severus had to lean in to be heard by Lupin but not by his Gryffindor protégés. Lupin smelled like curry spices now, over the faint scent of Muggle detergent. "I'll wait until they get out."

"I won't keep them, but they might be here a while. We've something pretty important to discuss."

"Eavesdropping _is_ an old pastime of mine."

Incongruously, Lupin only gave him a smile as he tugged on a new pair of socks. He left the room, flicking the lights off and shutting the door behind him. Severus conjured a chair and settled himself beside the door, hearing Lupin ask the children:

"Is George going to be joining us any time soon?"

"Hermione vetoed George," Potter said over the sound of cutlery clinking against porcelain.

"Well," Granger said, her voice a tad higher than before, "I love George, really, I do—I just think the three of us can do this more... you know, with less explosions and—and getting sacked or, or arrested." She sounded flustered. Severus didn't know that he'd ever heard her be that incoherent.

"So you've been looking over it again?" Potter asked suddenly. He must have noticed the papers Severus had left flung open across the sofa.

"This is really quite comprehensive," Granger said with approval, as if she, not Lupin, were almost forty and he, not she, were only twenty.

"Thank you, Hermione. It took quite a depressing evening to compile, but it was worth it."

"Wow," Potter said, his voice sinking. "It's... creepy, seeing it laid out like that. Like it's—just a bunch of numbers."

"People are starting to riot." The worry in Granger;s voice was so thick Severus could have heard it through walls twice as thick as these. "I think George is actually thinking of closing the shop. I tried to convince him and Ron and Ginny to go to the Burrow, and I really hope they will, but George doesn't want to leave his shop and flat at the mercy of looters..."

"Well," Lupin said dispassionately, "if there's widespread panic, it might make it easier for us to get into the Ministry."

"I—Remus, please don't take this the wrong way," Granger said, her voice the oratory equivalent of hand-wringing, "but we're not so sure—I mean, maybe you should leave this part tonight to us—I mean, if we're caught—" She paused; Severus found himself leaning nonsensically into the door, as if to press his ear against it. "Harry and I can explain away our being there," she said in a half-whisper. "But you've got Teddy to think about—"

"It would look suspicious," Lupin murmured. "I wish there'd been a way to have held out a couple more days, so I could have got all the newest information, but—"

"Don't worry about it," Potter said with simple confidence. "You did what you had to. Hermione and me can get it all, no problem."

"There always may be a problem, Harry," Granger said. Severus was mildly irritated to find himself in complete accord with her.

"Fine, fine," Potter said. "There'll be less of a _potential_ problem with just you and me. Better?" He sounded amused. Severus got the sense—from all three of them—that they were used to all this; they knew how to navigate around each other, how to adapt the each other's irritants and enthusiasms to suit the course of the conversation.

He'd forgotten what that sounded like.

"Yes, thank you," Granger said, more primly still.

"If you don't take me with you," Lupin said, "and for various reason, I do think you're right about that—I think you should take George or one of the others. I don't like it being just the two of you."

"No, I don't really like it either, but I just—I don't think..."

"I don't think we should even tell them what we're doing," Potter said, audibly discomfited. "They're kind of... getting pretty worked up over this thing. The whole time you were gone—we were all really upset, don't get me wrong—the Ministry was talking like you were dead, even though it had only been a few hours that you'd gone missing—but George and Ginny were getting—angry. There were saying some pretty furious stuff about the Ministry and how you can't trust it... how they've had this coming to them for a long time, after everything they did during the war... and didn't do..."

"During times like this, people can sometimes act in ways you wouldn't expect," Lupin said quietly. "But for that matter, if they find out that we've been concealing our plans from them... I just want you two to be prepared for that. All right?"

They didn't answer; Severus supposed they must have nodded because Lupin went on: "When do you two think you'll try?"

"Tonight," Granger said. "I don't think we should wait, considering..."

"No. You're quite right."

"It just keeps getting worse and worse," Potter said. "I mean—Umbridge—I hated her, she was really evil and twisted, but dying like that... I mean, when I read it, I thought, why is Avada Kedavra unforgivable and not this kind of thing?"

_It may not be classified as such, Potter, but believe me, it is in every other sense._

"It's so frightening," Granger said in a half-whisper. "If only we could figure out how he's doing it—nothing feels safe—"

 _Indeed, Granger_. _Although I am more concerned with 'why.'_

"We're going to figure it out," Potter said, his quiet young voice ringing with heartfelt certainty. "We're going to figure it out and stop him."

Severus sneered to himself. _How touching, Potter. Just like that, I suppose—armed with your Gryffindor courage and idealistic zeal._

And yet, a tiny part of him, somewhere deep down inside, echoed in response.


	10. Chapter 10

"Oh no!" Hermione blurted as the grey darkness of the sky began to deepen, signaling the sunset behind the clouds. "Remus, we're keeping you from Teddy, aren't we? I'm so sorry—"

"It's all right, Hermione, really..."

"No, you should go to him," Hermione said, starting to stack plates so distractedly that she accidentally put one of his books on the pile. "We're trying to keep things unsuspicious, and if Andromeda thinks—"

She stopped, going pink. Harry also turned distinctly mauve, which meant he'd shared a few things with her.

"It's fine," Remus soothed them.

"But you'll want to spend tonight with him," Hermione said, still pink in the face.

"Yes," Remus said, although he hadn't made up his mind about that. He couldn't plot with Severus _and_ visit his son. Both were so important that it seemed impossible to choose between them; but he had to. "It will give me a good alibi, too, in case you two are arrested," he added.

Hermione's pale face tinged green, but Harry only grinned.

"Let's clean up," she said, rather squeakily, standing with the mess of plates in her arms.

"I'll do that." Remus Accio'd them from her and banished them to the kitchen. "You two have a nice evening, now. Although," he looked at Hermione's grey face, "perhaps you should get some Dutch courage in you before you go."

"We've got it," Harry said, slinging his arm around her shoulders. "Come on, Hermione—once more to the beach, isn't it?"

"Once more unto the breach," she corrected. She paused to give Remus a clumsy kiss on the cheek, and then she and Harry (waving) were gone.

Remus locked the door behind them and made sure all the blinds were drawn before turning toward the bedroom—only Snape was already standing in the doorway. It was odd to see him in Muggle clothes. Remus didn't think he ever had, not even when Snape was flitting in and out of Grimmauld Place in the summer of '95. It was even more bizarre to see Severus Snape coming out of his bedroom into his tiny flat.

"When do you usually leave to see your son?"

"About now," Remus admitted.

"Then you ought to go."

"But—"

"Lupin, you shouldn't do anything differently. Not if you are under any kind of suspicion, no matter how asinine." His familiar face creased with annoyance. "I should not have come so obviously to see you. If your neighbors ask questions—"

"You didn't know," Remus protested.

"That doesn't mean I didn't fuck up." Snape was removing something from his robes—a tin flask and a little vial of hairs. "You will have to be doubly careful, Lupin. I won't come here anymore; you will have to come to me unless we have explicit reason to be elsewhere. Apparate to the beach once you've finished with your son. I assume you don't stay the night?"

"No. Severus, I'm sorry you had to wait all that time only to—"

"On the contrary, Lupin, I learned a great deal." Something in his face, though, was faintly sardonic. He dropped one of the hairs into the flask and drank its contents down. His grimace shifted out of familiarity into the dissonance of a stranger's face; his straight black hair crimped up from his shoulders into lighter brown curls, and his skin darkened slightly, until it was no longer pallid. He blinked at Remus, as if bringing him into focus. Remus had never Polyjuiced, so he didn't know how it felt; it didn't work on werewolves.

"I'll be over when Teddy's asleep," Remus said, trying to imagine that this really was Severus, not-so-deep inside. "He usually goes down some time before nine, depending on what kind of day he's had."

"The wards will let you in," Snape-the-stranger said, pulling out his wand. "Come whatever time you are available. There is much to discuss."

Then he Disillusioned himself, the lines of his Muggle clothes and unfamiliar face fading into the background of Remus' flat. Remus watched the shapes of his flat warp as Snape moved to the front door, opened it, and Disapparated.

Remus collected his coat and followed Severus' path out into the descending twilight.

* * *

 

He knocked on Andromeda's front door out of politeness; the wards told her he was there the moment he moved through them, and he could only pass through them because they had been charmed to accept him.

The door swung open with more force than usual. He stepped inside somewhat perplexed, because Andromeda's spell-work was usually tightly under her control.

"Da!" Teddy cried, trying to squirm out of Andromeda's arms: she had him clamped tight in a hug and was rocking back and forth on the sofa, sobbing.

A leaden chill thudded into Remus' stomach. He made it to the couch in two strides and knelt down beside her. "Andromeda?" he asked, forcing his voice to be calm. "What's the matter?"

She only shook her head and pressed her closed fist to her mouth, her fingers clutched around a crumpled piece of parchment. Teddy was making shrill mewling noises, trying to twist free of her arms, scraping at the backs of her hands with claw-tipped fox paws. Remus could see his fangs glinting over the bottom of his lip, his eyes going yellow.

"Andromeda, may I have Teddy?" Remus asked, still low and calm. "He's going to start biting you in a moment. I won't take him anywhere," he said, when she shook her head and tightened her hold, making Teddy hiss. "He'll just be here, beside you. All right?"

"No," she said. "No."

Remus didn't know what to do. He tried to focus on Teddy instead, but Teddy would have none of it. He screeched and sank his fangs into Andromeda's hand. She didn't move, didn't react in any way. Well, enough was enough. Remus took out his wand and forced her hand open; she spasmed, dislodging Teddy entirely. Remus managed to catch him before he hit the carpet, but Teddy hissed and swiped at his hand and darted off into the house.

"No!" Andromeda lurched off the couch. A door slammed in Teddy's bedroom; he must have shut himself in the closet.

"Andromeda, listen to me." Remus grabbed her by the wrist; she swung around as if to hit him, but he caught her other hand. "You need to get a hold of yourself," he told her sharply. "He's run off because you've frightened him. You need to calm down."

Andromeda was breathing hard, her face wet, pieces of her hair stuck to her cheeks. Her expression was both fragile and wild. For a moment he thought she might bite him herself, and then she just sank to her knees on the carpet, her hands pressed to her face. She started rocking back and forth slowly on the carpet, a low, sobbing moan emerging muffled from behind her hands. Remus had no idea what to do. He sank down next to her, not saying anything, rubbing the space between her shoulder blades.

"Read it," she whispered, her face tilted down at the floor.

At first he didn't understand what she meant, but then he remembered the crumpled bit of parchment. It had fluttered to the carpet next to them. He picked it up and caught the faintest trace of lavender scent. The handwriting was unfamiliar, but impeccably elegant. He turned it over, looking for a signature, and found it looped on the bottom on the back page.

Narcissa.

He turned the letter back over and read from the beginning:

_Andromeda,_

_You may wonder, after all this time, by what token I presume to write to you. In these dark days, I wonder how I could not. It seems that every day I read new reports of magical citizens falling prey to a poison that has come from nowhere and leads back to no discernible source, and every day I feel the coldness of fear coil more tightly around my heart. Might we be next? Might you?_

_I have heard Muggles in my periphery speaking of Apocalypses, second comings at the millennial, and I wonder if maybe they are right, in a way. Perhaps the sins of the Dark Lord were so great, they have poisoned the land, and it is the destiny of every witch and wizard to suffer. I do not know—nor, it seems, does anyone else. If it is the end of our world, I do not wish to walk into death with so many things in my life unrepaired. At the end, we have nothing to lose, only a great deal to forgive._

_I wish to see you again. I wish to see your grandson, my great-nephew. Either it will soon be too late, or we may yet escape if we run far enough. I am in France, far away (as yet) from the taint that is sweeping England, and I wish you and the child to stay safe with me as long as we all can. If you can find nothing in your heart for me, at least use this opportunity to keep him safe, as long as it may last. God willing, it will be forever._

_All my love,_

_Your sister,_

_Narcissa_

Remus heard a noise in the doorway to the hall and looked up to find Teddy peeking in on them, his fox ears pricked. When he saw Remus looking at him, he retreated a little back into the shadows of the hall, not quite ready to be noticed again.

For his part, Remus was stunned. Such a letter from Narcissa Malfoy, of all people...

Andromeda was leaning against the couch, her forehead propped on one hand, her eyes closed. He wondered what had upset her the most: the thought of such affection and regret from a sister who had stood on the side of the War that had killed her daughter, or the suggestion that this poison might soon affect Teddy and all of them. Surely she'd thought of that before. Remus had, while outlining the numbers of children affected. He'd thought with perfect, cold precision that if this poisoner hurt his son, Remus would find him and rip him open from bowels to sternum.

"Are you going to go?" he asked her.

She didn't answer right away. She wiped at her cheeks with slow, measured movements. He conjured a handkerchief but she didn't take it.

"Bellatrix killed Nymphadora," she said. "Narcissa knows it."

Remus couldn't say anything. He had known that, but still he could not speak.

"What is there to repair?" Andromeda turned to rest her back against the couch, staring sightlessly across her sitting-room. "What could survive after that?"

He heard Teddy scratching around in the hall, but either Andromeda didn't hear or she'd decided to let Teddy come to them, because she did not move.

"But she might be right that it's safer there," she said, just staring ahead. "Who cares about the company when Teddy might be safe?"

Technically that was true, but Remus doubted Teddy's safety among a bunch of Malfoys.

"I want you to look into it for me."

He blinked at her. She was finally looking at him, her eyes both exhausted and grim.

"Look into it? You mean—go to France—to Narcissa?"

"Yes. Meet with her. See if her offer is legitimate. If it's not, you may leave her to me. If it is, I think we should take her up on her hospitality."

"We," he repeated.

"You and Teddy and I."

"I didn't think I was invited."

"You're his father," she said, not blinking or flinching. "I wouldn't think you'd just let me leave with him."

"I don't have the right to stop you," he said bitterly, before he could stop himself.

"You don't have the legal privilege, but you have the right. What's to tie you here, anyway?" she asked, looking him straight in the eye. "A lingering responsibility to what? A world that you fought for, twice, and that denies you the right to raise your own child? Narcissa's got the right of it, with her talk of sins. You should let them burn to death."

If this had come from anyone but a Slytherin, Remus would have been startled. Slytherins—like Gryffindors—believed in retribution. If you had done something for someone, they owed you. If they failed to pay, they set themselves up for comeuppance tenfold.

"I read the papers," Andromeda said. "Artemisia Dent, the woman you nearly died for, worked on the board for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures. Pushed through some very draconian laws about werewolves."

"If we immolated everyone who was cruel to werewolves, there'd hardly be a soul left alive in magical Britain."

She eyed him for a few silent moments. "Looks like there will hardly be anyone left in any case, by the time this sick bastard is through with us. Go to France," she repeated. "If not for me, then for Teddy. You won't have to look Narcissa in the eye and tell her to pay up. I'll do it, gladly. Just see if the offer for sanctuary stands firm. I'll take care of the rest."

Teddy was fractious all evening, crying over small things and reacting badly whenever his father or grandmother tried to touch him. Remus wondered if he'd been that affected by Andromeda's desperation, or if perhaps the cold December air were crystallizing into a miasma of fear. Remus certainly felt as if anxiety had settled over his heart like a spider web.

Andromeda spent a great part of the evening looking at her photographs of Dora. Narcissa's letter had scraped old wounds open after all. Was she grieving for the loss of her sisters in the midst of her sorrow for her daughter?

He thought of Severus, locked up in that house on the island. Was his heart still full of Lily?

Of course it was. What a stupid question. The heart was always filled with people once you'd loved them. Losing them never mattered, not to the heart. He knew that as well as anyone alive.

He sat with Teddy in his room for a good two hours, trying to read him stories, lighting the lamp that spiraled shapes of dolphins, whales, swordfish, and octopi across the walls in glowing shapes. If the worst happened, he wanted to have everything to remember at the last, from the way Teddy hid under the rocking chair and hissed at him, to the way he finally crawled into Remus' lap, curled up like a cat, and fell gently into sleep.

It was well after ten o'clock by then, much later than Teddy normally went to bed, and Remus had promised to meet Severus. It was just as well, because he wasn't remotely sleepy. Weary, yes, but electrified.

Instead of Apparating straight to Severus' rocky beach, he went back to his flat, to the old shoe boxes of even older letters that he kept stashed in the back of his bedroom closet.

"Good thing I kept you all organized," he murmured.

From the second shoebox from the bottom he extracted sheaves of aged parchment bound with twine so old and delicate it snapped with hardly any effort. These letters were twenty years old, now.

He found the one he was looking for, the parchment deeply imprinted with the quill-scores of Lily's writing. Folding it up delicately, he slipped it into his coat pocket. On the nightstand, over the shoulder of his twenty-year-old self holding baby Harry, Lily waved at him, her smile glowing through the dimness of the room.

He closed his eyes and pictured the strip of Severus' beach, black against the night. A moment later, the pressure and chill of crossing more than two hundred kilometers had passed, and he felt the mist of the sea on his face.

* * *

 

Severus felt the wards chime across his skin around eleven o'clock, later than he'd expected Lupin. It wasn't raining, but the wind was fierce and the surf was churning, its salty spray misting the air. He Apparated to the strip of beach that was the only place guests could materialize, collided with something about his own size, and went down with it in a heap.

He didn't need the supernatural strength of the body heat to know it was Lupin; who else would it be? He got his wand lit at the same time Lupin did, and they both flinched at two sudden pinpoints of Lumos shining in their eyes.

"Sorry, Severus—" Lupin scrambled off him and helped him up, although Severus was perfectly capable of doing it himself.

"About as good a guest as a host, Lupin," Severus said. He grabbed Lupin's arm and said, "We're Apparating to the house," and vanished with him, squeezing them through the darkness and the cold and the briny sea spray until they stood on the damp stone balcony over the front door.

Severus spelled the doors open and pushed Lupin inside. The hall around them was little more than burnished shadows and pits of night. Severus had never needed much light to move around, having spent all his life in semi-darkness.

He closed the doors behind them. They met in the frame with a low but final-sounding boom.

"Did you say this was your grandfather's house?" Lupin asked in a near whisper. Severus could hardly make out anything of his face, just that it was turning this way and that, presumably as he looked around.

"Yes." Severus started the walk back to the library.

"It's—an impressive place," Lupin said, still in that half whisper.

"Why are you whispering? I don't have a choice, but you certainly do."

"I don't know, it just seems like the sort of place you whisper in, really... should I be worried about waking any of the paintings?" Severus saw Lupin look up at the walls, where the pale faces of former Princes were barely distinguishable in the darkness.

"The paintings have all been silenced. Simply keep away from the third floor of the western tower and you'll be fine."

"Why, what's there?"

"The ghost of my great-aunt."

The library was slightly brighter with the fire Severus kept stoked in the hearth, although the room was still primarily dark. The chairs beside the fire were visible enough, but shadows stained the walls. He supposed Lupin would want more lights lit.

"You're joking," Lupin said, although he didn't sound sure. "About the aunt—aren't you? Severus?"

"Would I do a thing like that? Make a joke?"

"Well, you just did." His lopsided smile was visible even in the firelight.

"My mother has been living here since—the past twenty years," Severus said, changing the direction of his reply. "Taking care of her aunt, who went mad some time ago. The woman died about a month back; her ghost lingered. Mother and I managed to trap it in the western tower; otherwise it would drift about the whole house shrieking and so forth. I'm being quite serious," Severus said, off the look on Lupin's face.

"I believe you," Lupin said, looking bewildered. "But that's horrible, Severus—"

"By all means, Lupin, if you want her popping up while you're visiting and caterwauling in your ear—"

"I didn't mean that, I meant—oh, just that the whole thing is horrible. I know it's hypocritical, but sometimes I hate pure-bloods... sorry."

"I'm not a pure-blood. Don't apologize to me, or to them. The lot of them deserve to be hated."

He went to light the lamps and then realized he'd taken them all out and put them around the house for when he needed them. Damn.

"Actually, speaking of pure-bloods," Lupin said, "I wanted to ask you something."

Severus only looked at him, waiting.

"Andromeda received a letter tonight. From Narcissa."

Severus blinked.

"She wanted to... repair the things between them that had gone wrong."

Severus blinked again.

"Before it was too late. She invited Andromeda to stay with her family in France, until England was safe again—if it ever was."

Severus blinked a third time. Lupin was looking at him shrewdly.

"Does that sound like Narcissa?" he asked, his pale eyes watching Severus. The firelight turned his irises as clear as water.

"Yes," said Severus after a few moments of consideration. He might as well tell him, he supposed... "For—some time she has wanted to contact her sister, but hasn't been able to bring herself to do it. She... feels guilt that her son survived the War and... her sister's daughter did not."

Lupin's wife. His son's mother.

"Christ," Lupin said, sounding intensely sad all of a sudden, "it isn't her fault."

"Of course it's not, Lupin, but does that matter? Don't you ever feel guilty that you—"

He broke off, his throat closing as suddenly as if his heart had leapt into it; only he had no heart, because it had broken and turned to dust a long time ago. There was only an emptiness inside him where there should have been feeling and warmth. And yet the sight of Lupin, his face in the golden red glow of the fire, his pale eyes as clear as water, as if Leglimency worked on him and Severus could see inside his soul the way he could everyone else's, made Severus feel as if he were falling through himself.

"So you think it's genuine," Lupin said.

"Yes," Severus managed.

"Well then," Lupin said, in a voice that would have been light, in some other lifetime, "I guess I'll also have to work a trip to France into my schedule. I don't suppose you know a fast, quiet way to get there?"

"Why would _you_ go to France?"

"Andromeda wants me to check it out for her."

"So tell her you have. You've asked me and I've told you; you don't need to go."

Remus blinked. "That's... true, but... if it were just me, but for my son's sake—"

"Narcissa doesn't have anything up her sleeve. Family has always been important to her."

"Yes, but—blood-traitor part-werewolf family?"

"Your son can't be a werewolf. The curse propagates through the bite, not through—human means."

Lupin gave him a funny look. "He doesn't have any characteristics that we can see, but is a good, traditional pure-blood like Narcissa going to see it that way?"

Severus honestly didn't know. "She's got it in her head that he's her great-nephew. If she's decided something, Lupin, that's pretty much the end of it." Narcissa probably wouldn't appreciate him sharing this with Lupin—and in fact he didn't know why he was—but he said, "Narcissa... loves children. She always wanted more than Draco."

Lupin looked as though he hadn't thought Narcissa could be a person with genuine feelings or longings or desires that had never been fulfilled. Not that Severus could really blame him for that. Narcissa didn't really seem like such a person, except that every person felt those things.

"Well," Lupin said, "I won't say 'no' to anyone who wants to love Teddy, but I hope she realizes that if she wants to know my son, she's going to have to know me, too."

Severus pictured the look on Narcissa's face when she realized what she'd set herself up for. He wanted to be there to see it.

"I'm sure that will give her an attack of indigestion," he said. "I'll write to her and let her know."

"I was thinking I'd just show up. Attack without warning and all, you understand."

"How opportunistic of you."

"Well, you know." Lupin was smiling slightly in the firelight. "I figured it would be more prudent."

"Now you're employing Slytherin vocabulary. How long did it take you—forty years?"

"I'm not forty until March," Lupin said lightly. "But I'm starting to come around to a Slytherin way of thinking, perhaps."

"Yes—using Potter's fame and Granger's untarnished reputation to filch confidential government records." Severus wished the light were stronger, because Lupin's expression suggested he was blushing.

However, he spoiled the slight impression of cunning he'd made earlier that afternoon when Severus was eavesdropping by saying worriedly, "I hope they're all right—"

"Lupin, they will be fine. Potter may be the Gryffindor of Gryffindors, but Granger can keep him in line, and she's surprisingly prudent."

"I'm more worried about the poisoner realizing they're getting involved. I thought about not including them at all, but then I realized I couldn't not, Harry wouldn't let me sit him out—"

Severus was prepared to endure Lupin's fussing over his child, but he wasn't going to listen to self-flagellation over Potter, of all bloody people. "Lupin, unlike your infant son, Potter can take care of himself. That is what Albus raised him to do."

The cast of bitterness across his voice surprised him; he could tell it had surprised Lupin, too.

"What do you mean?" Lupin asked, somewhat cautiously. "I know you can't mean that literally, Severus, because Harry was raised by—"

"Lily's sister, Petunia. Albus might as well have set the boy to be brought up by me, Lupin. I told him how she would react, and he left the boy there anyway."

Lupin's face showed surprise, but not nearly enough as it would had if Potter hadn't told him all about Severus' _change of heart_. Of course he had. Lupin wouldn't have just taken someone else's word twice; once Dumbledore's, but not twice Potter's.

"I never met Petunia," Lupin said quietly. "Lily didn't talk much about her."

"Her sister suffered the curse many Muggles do, who get near magic and can't have it," he said bitterly. Although the implication that Petunia hadn't even come to Lily's wedding surprised him. Lily surely would have invited her. It wasn't as if Petunia had become a Death Eater, like her treacherous once-best friend.

Lupin appeared to be hesitating about something. Then he drew in a breath and said, "I've brought you something..."

Severus blinked yet again. "Brought me something."

Lupin nodded, like he wasn't sure he should do this. He rooted inside his coat pocket and drew out—a sheet of parchment folded into a letter.

"What's that?" Severus asked. "Misdirected mail?"

"Yes," Lupin said, which wasn't what he'd expected at all.

Lupin looked down at the letter. For a few moments he said nothing, and then in a voice so quiet Severus found himself leaning forward to hear him, said: "Back in '79, I had a pretty bad transformation, and I was out of pocket for a couple of days. When I got back to my flat, I found a couple of letters waiting for me. In the first one, Lily was wondering if I was all right... she said she'd had some kind of weird premonition, because she dreamed she'd sent me a letter the night before, but when she got up in the morning the letter was still sitting on her desk. But there were two letters from her. They both had my name on them, but..."

He held the letter out to Severus. "Open that," he said, still very quietly.

Severus took it, and hoped Lupin couldn't see in the indifferent light how the parchment shook with the tremors in his hand. _Remus_ was scrawled across the parchment envelope, in Lily's handwriting. He knew Lily's handwriting as well as his own; he'd kept every letter she had ever written him.

He did not want to open this.

But he did, because Lupin was watching him with an expression that made Severus wish more than ever that he could Leglimize him, to prepare himself. He tilted the parchment toward the fire so he could read it, and felt as if everything inside him—bones, sinews, blood, viscera—had just vanished.

_Severus, I just found out I'm about to be a mum and I'm so scared_

It was a letter to him. She had written a letter to him.

He couldn't breathe.

"At first I had no idea what I was reading," Lupin said, still in that barely there voice. "I had to read it through several times before I understood... she'd written it to you and then accidentally sent it to me. It even took me a while to remember you'd been friends..."

Severus couldn't take his eyes off the letter, but he couldn't read it; all he could see was the net of words across the parchment, as incoherent as if they'd been written in a language long dead.

"She told us she was pregnant a few days later. I don't think she'd even told James when she wrote that."

Severus didn't know what to do. He felt like he was going blind, or mad.

"Severus." Lupin put his hand on his arm, just below the elbow. "I'm sorry—should I not have given it to you?"

Severus couldn't reply. He only looked up at Lupin blindly. What would his face be like? Whatever it was, Lupin's expression filled with such compassion and—regret...

"I'm glad I kept it, then," Lupin said. His hand was still on Severus' arm. Then it was withdrawing as he stood, leaving a chill in its place, a chill that seemed to pierce to Severus' empty core. "I'll leave things for tonight... all right? I'll see you tomorrow, come back here around nine? Is that all right?"

Severus managed to nod, although he didn't know how, because he still felt emptied out of everything. Lupin's hand returned—touching his shoulder, this time—and then he turned to go.

"You can't Apparate on the property," Severus managed to tell him. "I—Nitty—"

The house-elf appeared with a crack that split the silence. Lupin looked startled.

"Master wants Nitty?" she asked distastefully.

"Show Lupin out," Severus said, surprised to hear his voice folding back to normalcy, almost. Because he wasn't looking at the letter. He was still holding it, but not looking at it.

"Yes, Master," Nitty said, making it sound like an insult. He honestly didn't care. He had a letter from Lily—a letter she'd written him, not something meant for Black or anyone else—meant for him—

He heard the library door close, but it didn't matter. Shaking, he lit his wand and laid it on the arm of his chair, and between the burnished glow of the firelight and the starlight brightness of the Lumos, he read a letter sent to Lupin, meant for himself, twenty years ago.

* * *

 

_Severus, I just found out I'm about to be a mum and I'm so scared. I know James will be happy, I should be, too, but all I can think of is how easily people can die. The Prewetts, Gideon and Fabian, turned up dead just a few days ago, did you know? They were killed by Death Eaters. I found out just hours after I'd found out about the baby. I couldn't stop crying. I was thinking about the baby and about them and I wondered if you'd been one of the five. I want to ask but I don't want to know unless the answer is no, and what if it's not?_

_Every time the Order reads out the list of Death Eaters that've been captured, I listen for your name and it's not on there, and then I'm so relieved I have to leave everyone else and just be by myself, because I can't tell them why I'm crying. Everyone thinks I'm a useless mess because I can't hex people properly in combat, even if they're Death Eaters, it upsets me too much, and then I cry when the lists of dead and captured Death Eaters are read out. I'm not telling them why. I can't. You saved me in September, I know it was you—when I was hit by that curse and it hurt like I was going to die, and someone took me away and healed me—I know that was you. I recognized the scar on your hand, and your eyes behind that stupid fucking mask—do you know what I felt seeing that? Could you see it in me? I wish I could ask you so you could tell me, because I don't know what I felt, I really don't, I still don't. All I know is that I'm so relieved when I find out they haven't caught you that I can't stop crying._

_What kind of mum am I going to be? I don't feel like I know what's going on, ever—I feel like everything I do is so far beyond me, such a huge mistake, like I'm just blundering through life and I can't afford to, because it might get me killed. Only now it's not just me, because there's a baby. There's going to be a baby._

_What am I going to do, Sev_


	11. Chapter 11

_December 19_

Remus awoke to a _bang_ against his bedroom window. A dark shape blotted the curtains from the other side.

The toxic green numbers on his bedside clock said it was past three in the morning. He groped for his wand and twitched one side of the curtain—and then pushed it back all the way.

"Severus?" he said, shocked, pushing the window up. He grabbed Severus by the arm and pulled him inside—he was sopping wet; a violent rain was rushing down outside now, clattering on the fire escape.

Severus was shivering all over and his skin was stark white. His face as he looked at Remus was beyond haunted; it was empty of hope. Remus felt his heart turn over. Oh Christ. He shouldn't have given him that letter; what had he been thinking? And after the state he'd found Andromeda in—

"Severus—you're freezing—" He tried a drying spell; once, twice, three times, and Severus' robes cleared of water, but they were still damp and he was still shivering in full-body pulses. There was nothing for it. Remus tugged his robes off, leaving him in the pale shift he wore underneath; then he Summoned his flannel blanket from the sofa and wrapped him up in it. Severus didn't react to any of it; he only stared ahead, his eyes empty—not of emotion, as when Occluding, but of thought, as if he'd retreated so far into himself, nothing reached the surface.

"It's all right," Remus said, which was nonsensical, because clearly it was anything but all right. _You complete fucking idiot, Remus._ He chafed Severus' arms through the blanket, because he couldn't do anything else. "It's all right..."

"I didn't kill the Prewetts," Severus whispered, staring at the floor.

Remus didn't immediately understand what he meant. Then he remembered it had been in the letter. But he had absolutely no idea what to say.

Severus' breath was shaking; Remus could hear it. "Everything she was afraid of... it all happened..."

Remus felt his eyes sting. In the streetlamps illuminating the edge of Remus' curtains, he saw the glint of a single tear tracking out the corner of Severus' eye, down the edge of his face.

Remus still couldn't say anything. Perhaps there was nothing anyone could have said.

Severus leaned his head on Remus' shoulder, his eyes still closed.

"I can never forgive myself," he said. "I can't."

Remus only squeezed his shoulder. He had nothing to offer except his presence.

They stayed like that, with the rain pattering onto the fire escape outside, cold in the night.

* * *

 

When Severus woke up, he had no idea where he was. Everything—the line of the windows covered in plain blue-grey curtains; the crack on the ceiling; the lumps in the mattress—was unfamiliar. Especially the presence of someone lying next to him.

As soon as he registered that the person was unnaturally warm, he realized it was Lupin. He turned his head anyway to look, and sure enough it was: still sleeping, the lines on his face brushed away in the muted morning light, his overlong bangs feathered over one eye. Asleep, Lupin was nothing much to look at. It was the expressiveness of his eyes and his smile that made his face appealing, not anything inherently remarkable in his features.

Severus tried to remember how the hell he'd got there. A blackness surged up, like the well of the sea as he'd Apparated to Lupin's fire escape...

Lily's letter.

The edges of his mind felt raw and tenderized. He was so accustomed to Occluding that when his shields failed, he lost control of himself. Occlumency was the total shut-down of emotions; there was no integration, no selection of which emotions to shut off and which to endure; it was all or nothing. And when it became 'all' again...

He didn't remember what had made him decide to come to Lupin. He probably hadn't been thinking, only acting on some kind of visceral emotion.

He sat up cautiously, watching Lupin for signs of awakening. But Lupin slept on. Good.

Severus wanted to get out of there before Lupin woke up and started asking him questions. He didn't remember what, if anything, he'd said, but he'd probably given Lupin a thousand things to ask about, none of which Severus would want to answer.

He was wearing just his shift and a flannel blanket. When the hell had Lupin taken his robes off? What a gross familiarity.

 _You did bang on his window in the middle of the night_ , said a fair little voice he'd always thought of as his Inner Hufflepuff. It was both reasonable and equitable, which meant it was also the size of a pin's head.

To make matters worse, he needed Lupin's bathroom. He glanced at Lupin to make sure he was still sound enough asleep, and then tried to edge over him to get off the bed. It might have worked, if Severus hadn't forgotten about the flannel blanket and Lupin hadn't fallen asleep on one edge of it. It pulled him up short and fell onto Lupin, who awoke with a start and half sat-up, dislodging Severus; and because they were both caught up in the blanket, when Severus went tumbling to the floor, Lupin went, too. He tried to catch himself on his nightstand but only ended up knocking its contents to the floor and hitting Severus on the head with a picture frame.

"Fuck," Lupin said, sounding only half awake. Severus hadn't known Lupin ever swore like that. His hair was wildly rumpled and his eyes were mixedly blurred and alert. "What happened?"

"I was trying to get up without waking you," Severus said sourly. "Now I wish I'd thrown something at your head."

"Sorry—"

For the second (or was it third, if you counted the market) time in twenty-four hours, Lupin untangled himself from Severus and tried to help him up. Severus knocked his hands away and sat up amongst the scattered detritus from Lupin's night stand.

"One of these days, one of us is going to visit the other without someone winding up injured," Severus said, glaring at him. He yanked the flannel blanket away from Lupin, wrapped it around himself, and retreated into the bathroom.

 _Damn, shit and bloody shit_ , he thought. Perhaps he could escape out the bathroom window. No, his robes were in Lupin's bedroom. The window was also rather small and a bit higher than his waist. "Piss and blood," he muttered.

His mouth tasted like something old and dead, so he conjured a toothbrush, although it was partly to give himself some time to think. He wanted to Occlude, but he knew it would be pointless to try it yet. But he had no idea how to act around Lupin when he wasn't Occluding. He shouldn't have come here.

_Too late for that now, you dolt—_

He wished he was wearing something other than his shift and a fucking blanket.

Lupin was clattering around in his kitchen; he could hear it through the bathroom door. Severus smelled something sweet and grainy; probably hot cereal. He was hungry.

Lupin appeared in the doorway between the kitchen and the sitting-room. His arms were bare in a Muggle t-shirt; he was still in his pajamas, but the eyes regarding Severus through strands of his silvered light-brown hair were much more awake.

"Would you like some breakfast?" he asked. Severus sensed that Lupin didn't know what to say any more than he did.

"Yes," he decided to say.

Lupin's smile was like a reflex, but at the same time oddly genuine. "Your robes are hanging on the back of the bedroom door."

Severus gladly shut himself in the bedroom. He saw, then, why Lupin had taken them off; they were still damp and clammy and, being made of wool, didn't smell any more appealing than they felt. Still, he wasn't going to sit around Lupin's flat in his fucking underclothes, so he put them on. He wished he could say he felt more like himself wearing them again, but he didn't.

He found himself looking through the photographs Lupin kept in the bedroom, for shots of Lily. Here was one of her placing her son in Lupin's arms and then hovering like she couldn't bear to step away, smiling up at the camera at the last. He touched the corner of the frame with his fingertips. Lily's smile was radiant, lighting up her whole body, it seemed. When Lupin looked up and smiled, too, his eyes crinkled.

Either he could stay in here with memories that cut into the rawness of his mind, or he could go face the real man. Neither option seemed appealing when every part of him felt exposed.

The amount of breakfast Lupin had spread across the kitchen table was almost obscene. There were towers of toast, a plate heaped with muffins, a pot of what looked like cream of rice, and a stack of little round waffles.

"How on earth did you make those?" Severus asked, blinking at the waffles. It hadn't taken him _that_ long to brush his teeth.

"Oh, they're just freezer waffles," Lupin said from the stove, where he was slicing up a tomato. "Not as good as the real thing by any means, but I can eat them. Help yourself—I'm frying sausages and tomatoes if you want any."

"This is adequate." Severus refrained from sharing that he rarely ate solid foods any longer; they made his throat hurt. He served himself the cream of rice instead, pouring butter and cream into it.

Lupin set a small ceramic jug down next to him. "Brown sugar?" he asked, before turning back to the stove. Severus stared at it. Surely he couldn't have remembered... Severus had never eaten anything at Grimmauld Place, which would've made the memory six years old.

"Did I blather about my breakfast preferences last night?" He felt himself hunching over in the defensive posture he'd never been able to unlearn, so that his hair would fall around his face and hide him.

Looking sideways through strands of his hair, he took note of the way Lupin did not turn around from the stove. "You didn't really say much of anything."

"And you didn't ask?" Severus didn't look up either. He swirled his brown sugar into his buttery cream of rice, a part of him thinking how grotesquely pathetic it was for two grown men who had nominally known each other for near thirty years of their lives to find themselves unable to have an honest conversation without reverting to the awkwardness of a pair of emotionally stunted fourteen-year-olds. "You didn't wonder why I'd come banging on your door in the middle of the night?"

Lupin turned around at that, but Severus still didn't look up.

"You came in through the window," Lupin said in an odd voice Severus couldn't interpret.

He went quite still.

"You don't remember?"

Severus stared at his bowl, the butter and brown sugar running together. He started eating instead of answering. _Fourteen years old indeed._

Lupin returned to his sausages. For a time the only sounds were the sizzle of the grease and the clink-clinkclink-clink of Severus' spoon against his bowl. His hand was shaking.

Lupin sat down at the table with a plate piled with sausages and tomatoes and eggs. When Severus' eyes flicked up, he saw Lupin looking at him in a way he didn't understand.

"What?" he hissed, hunching in further on himself.

Lupin didn't answer right away. Then he said: "I didn't think it would hurt you like that. I thought—oh, I don't know. I've been a complete, absolute fucking idiot all this week. I'm sorry, Severus."

All Severus' thoughts felt granulated and prismatic, like the brown sugar in its bowl.

"I didn't know she ever thought of me," he said. He tried to grasp the shroud of his Occlumency, but it came apart at a touch, without substance. "I thought she didn't. Until last night."

Lupin went very still. Severus couldn't look up at him. He added two scoops of brown sugar to his tea and watched the granules dissolve.

He wished Lupin would say something. He was afraid to say anything else, for fear of what might come out. He didn't want to tell Lupin that he'd given him something no one else could have done: the knowledge that in some way, Lily had still cared about him, even after so many things. Not the worst thing he'd ever done to her, but things that should have made her cut him out of her heart.

For twenty-five years, he'd thought she had.

Perhaps that's why he'd gone to Lupin when his shields had failed to protect him against his own emotions.

Lupin lay his fingers on Severus' wrist, where it lay on the kitchen table. Severus just stared. Nobody touched him anymore, not in this body. Lupin's hands were as warm as the rest of him.

"Why did you keep it?" Severus asked him. Even if his voice had possessed its old strength, he doubted it would have risen above a whisper.

"I keep all the letters I get."

"I would assume the majority of your letters are meant for you." He hesitated, and then said, "I... do not wish you'd gotten rid of it."

"Of course not." Lupin squeezed his wrist, and something inside Severus jumped at the pressure. "I think I meant to ask her about it, at first... but then I never did. By the time I saw her again, I was pretty certain what had happened."

"She never spoke of me, then," Severus said. He knew, though. If she had, Lupin wouldn't have been so confused by the letter; he would have asked her about it, not maintained this confidential silence.

From the corner of his eye, he saw Lupin shake his head. "No, but she did cry whenever the names of Death Eaters were read out. Nobody could really understand it, and she couldn't explain."

"You could, though."

He glanced up through his hair in time to see Lupin's eyes dart to him. "Well, after I read the letter..." He gave a sort of self-conscious smile and shrugged.

"Then she seemed to you—all of you—what she seemed to me." The tea was warm in his mouth, but he still felt cold inside.

"I—sorry?"

"That she didn't care any longer. Perhaps she tried not to."

"Severus..."

"I did." He looked down into his tea again. Just sienna-tinted water. "I tried not to care."

Lupin's hand was lying on the table in his line of sight, but Severus had moved his hand so he could hold his teacup. He wondered if Lupin would have tried to touch him again if he'd been within easy reach.

Lupin said quietly, "It doesn't work like that, though, does it? Sometimes I wish it would."

Severus sneaked another glance at him through his hair. Lupin was looking out the kitchen window, the circle of glass still dark in the winter pre-dawn. He remembered that one of the photographs on Lupin's nightstand was of him and Black, quite young; perhaps the same age Lily had been when she'd written a letter to him she'd apparently never meant to send. Severus had known he was right about them, but when he'd been snooping through Lupin's things yesterday, the sight of Lupin leaning back into Black's arms and smiling had made Severus forget he had hated them; that he still hated the memory of Black. It was hard to remember that, when you could tell two people loved each other that much and only one of them was left remembering it had ever existed.

"If you try to take the letter back, I'll wring your neck."

Unexpectedly, a smile crinkled Lupin's face and he looked back at him. "I'll keep that in mind. It's yours, Severus. It was written to you, even if it got a bit misdirected."

"For twenty years. Even the English postal service isn't that shitty."

Lupin laughed as though he really found that funny. "There goes my future career as a postal worker."

"By all means, take it as a sign."

Lupin only laughed again. Severus felt oddly out of sorts, as if all his organs had at last been put back inside him, but in all the wrong places. He pushed his tea away and stood, feeling as hesitant as he did off-kilter. "I should go before Potter and Granger come charging back through the door with Thai food and illegal evidence."

"It's only seven in the morning, I think they might be a while—with the Thai food, at least. But you probably want to change and all," Lupin said, his voice both warm and understanding. He stood, too. When he wasn't Body Binding Severus or hitting in the head with picture frames, he really was an excellent host.

"How did I get in here?" Severus asked, tucking his arms around himself. It made no sense for him to feel more jittery now that he and Lupin weren't talking about things he'd buried for more than two decades.

"This way."

Lupin led him back into the bedroom and pushed the window up. It was raining. Of course.

He hesitated by the door. Lupin's expression was inquiring. Severus clicked off the lamps so his exit would be less visible, and so Lupin wouldn't be able to see him say what he would next. But it was no good; the light from the sitting-room was just strong enough for him to make out Lupin's face. The light was behind Severus' back, though; perhaps that would shield him, since his Occlumency still drifted through his mind in gossamer strands of nothing.

"Thank... you," he said. Lupin's inquiring look turned to surprise. "For... breakfast."

Lupin's smile shifted across his face the same way the tide ebbed up the shore. "You're welcome, Severus," he said, and Severus knew that Lupin knew what he was really saying.

He went to the window without another word. He'd just put his hand on the sill to climb out when he heard the knocking on the front door. The wards glowed golden.

"Harry," Lupin said, actually smacking his forehead. "I think that boy must have a sixth sense for when you're here, Severus." He gave Severus a swift, distracted smile and touched him once more, just as swiftly, on the shoulder. "I'll see you later today," he said, "if you'll excuse me?"

Severus nodded. Lupin smiled once more and shut the bedroom door behind him.

For a moment Severus stood uncertain in front of the cold window, icy humid air soaking through his robes into his skin. Why was it so hard to make himself leave?

He could hear the sound of the front door opening, Lupin and Granger's voices lapping over each other—

And Potter's.

The sound of it was like a slap against his esophagus. Last night he'd held a letter Lily had written to him about that boy, when he'd been hardly more than a heartbeat inside her.

It was a good thing she hadn't sent it. At twenty, if he'd seen the words _I'm going to be a mum_ —a mother by that loathsome shit, James Potter—he'd have set the letter alight before he got to the next sentence. Then he'd never have known that somewhere in her heart, she worried about him.

"—we got it," the boy was saying, his voice both breathless and triumphant, grating on Severus' ears, twisting his organs into knots. "We got it!"

"Harry—" Lupin sounded both shocked and delighted.

"We almost got a lot more than evidence," Granger said shakily. "Oh God, I never want to do that again, it was like being back in Gringott's, trying to outwit the goblins—"

"I shouldn't have thought anyone at the Ministry was as canny as a goblin," Lupin said.

Severus agreed. Not now that Lupin had resigned, certainly.

He realized he had drifted over to the bedroom door to hear better. The bedroom window was still open, the rain pinging a soft melody in the background.

"They weren't," Potter said. "They're not. Here you go." He must have produced the evidence; all Severus could hear from the sanctuary of Lupin's bedroom was shuffling noises. "All the info we could find—it's got all the most recent ninety in there, the ones who—who burned."

"Amazing," Lupin said. "You two are amazing."

"Hermione pulled us through it." Modesty, from a Potter? There was a shock.

"I couldn't have done," said Granger. "I almost lost it in there."

"D'you want anything to eat or drink?" Lupin asked. "Shots of brandy, waffles—anything?"

"I think I smell sausages?" Potter said. "And tomatoes?"

"You do," Lupin said. "No, just sit down, I'll bring it to you—"

For several minutes Severus listened to the clink of dishes as the smell of food grew steadily stronger. He supposed he cared about the evidence, on some much lower level. It was hard to give a shit about the mundanity of strangers dying when thoughts of Lily and his coming to Lupin in the midst of an emotional maelstrom were glittering in his mind like cut glass.

Severus conjured himself a chair, as he'd done yesterday. He tried to listen to Potter and Granger's tale of breaking and entering, but the mechanics of their Gryffindor tomfoolery held barely any interest. He wondered if Potter's good will toward him would evaporate if he really turned out to be alive. It was easier to forgive someone when they were dead and you knew they couldn't transgress against you any longer.

He heard Lupin laugh and tuned in to try and figure out why. "My God," Lupin was saying, "it's a miracle I wasn't called down to Azkaban to bail you out. Only a joke, Hermione," he added hastily.

"Almost wasn't," said Potter with typical Gryffindorian enthusiasm for a near-incarcerating experience.

"Do _not_ remind me," said Granger in a tone Severus couldn't help approving of.

"Well, you got through it," said Lupin, ever the peacemaker. "With all this, I'm hoping we can figure out what all the victims have in common..."

"Isn't it just random?" Potter said, the thick-headed dunce.

"We're not sure either way," Lupin said. "But I can't help feeling this isn't just—some random act of malice, perpetrated out of boredom. And to mark his victims in prison, not just once, but _twice_..."

"He could be showing off how clever he is," Granger said. "He has to be a genius, what with everything—and getting to prisoners twice is an even more obvious marker of his brilliance."

"Brilliance?" Potter said. "Hermione, he's sick!"

"Of course he's sick, Harry, but he's very, extremely clever. That makes it worse for us, in fact, don't you dare think I'm admiring him—"

"No, I don't, I'm sorry, really I am. But... do you really think this is all to just... show off what a brilliant bloke he is?" He sounded as if the thought made him ill.

 _No, Potter,_ Severus thought, _it's much more than that._ You didn't hurt this many people—kill them—without some great motivation, some great fueling of hatred...

"I don't know, do I? I wish I did. I wish someone did."

"Now that we've got this," said Lupin, "we'll come closer to figuring it out. I know we will."

 _More Gryffindor optimism._ At least they were on the right track with this bit.

Something thudded in the distance—against Lupin's wall?

"What was that?" Granger asked, her voice both sharp and shrill.

"Just the paper," said Lupin.

"Check the window, still, to see—"

There was a pause, presumably while Potter practiced Gryffindor's particular brand of anti-stealth by going to the window and peering out. "Yeah, just the paper," he said, over the sound of one of them opening the front door.

"Jesus Christ," said Lupin. Severus tensed in his chair; all the hairs along the back of his neck rose. He stood before he realized what he was doing, but of course he couldn't just walk out there. He wished he could, especially when Granger gasped and, it sounded like, started to cry. Severus pressed himself against Lupin's bedroom door, his body strung like a wire, listening as one of them started rooting around the room. Had something happened to the Weasleys? No, surely they'd find out some other, more personal way—

"Kingsley's not been affected," Lupin said; was he reading the paper? "Why not Kingsley?"

"Here," Potter said tightly. "Everyone was in a stew last night, that's why we were able to get this at all—they knew this had happened, I get it now—here, read me out some of the names, Remus?"

"Grimerius Weston, Oswin Urquhart, Clive Potter-Pirbright, Richildis Dentworth—"

"They're here—well, not all of them, but I've got Pirbright, Dentworth, and Weston, they must've been hit early enough for their stuff to get filed—"

"I think that's even worse than immolating," Granger said in a thick voice; she'd definitely begun crying. Severus wished he weren't playing dead, for just that moment, so he could march in there and demand to know what had happened _now._

"Every single one of them was a high-ranking politician," Lupin said, his voice as shrewd as his face had been last night when he'd asked Severus about Narcissa's letter.

"Wizengamot?" Potter asked.

"No, actually—a few, not all—but they all held very prestigious positions within the Ministry, every single one of them... Grimerius Weston was in charge of promoting me; he was head of Highly Catastrophic in Accidents & Catastrophes."

Granger gasped. "You don't think that's why—but no, none of the others had anything to do with you, did they?"

"No, I've never heard of most of these people. I can only tell by their job descriptions."

"What would _you_ have to do with anything?" Potter asked, bewildered. Severus rolled his eyes hugely.

"Honestly, Harry! Remus is a werewolf! And Weston promoted him—"

"All right, you don't have to bite my head off—this can't be all about people who've helped out werewolves or you and me and the Weasleys would've been the first ones to go."

"Point," Lupin admitted.

Severus agreed. Potter, Granger, Lupin and all the Weasleys were still entirely unaffected—while the poison's extremities had worsened to include a fate more grim than immolation, according to Granger. That left one of two options: either Lupin and the rest would remain hale forever, outside the scope of this man's malice, or they would fall to something worse...

Never had he been gladder that he'd left the world thinking he was dead. Assuming, of course, that the means of selecting the victims was controlled... but it had to be, didn't it? Assuming everything was premeditated, not just random malice, as Lupin had called it...

And Lupin had a son... He had better take the boy and hie off to France as soon as he was able. Hell, Severus would escort him there. Anything to get away from this hate-filled, murdering lunatic...

He wanted to pace, but Lupin's bedroom was too small for it. Perhaps he should return home? Then he'd just bang about the house waiting for Lupin, with no idea of when he'd show. No, he was going to have to wait here until—

The noise level in the sitting-room had increased; the front door was opening. _Not more guests,_ he thought, half furious, half despairing.

"Can I help you?" Lupin asked, sounding polite yet surprised.

"We're looking for a strange bloke who was on our street yesterday," said a man's voice. "Curly brown hair, medium height, foreign-looking."

_Oh, fuck._

"Yes?" Lupin only sounded bewildered. It was such a good act, even Severus could have believed Lupin really didn't know what they were talking about.

"We saw him loitering round down on the street like he was up to no good," the stranger said. "Then he went off, came back a bit later—thought he came up to this flat."

"This flat?" Lupin said, as if surprised. "My flat?"

"Yeah," said the man. Severus thought he heard other mutters—the man wasn't alone. Fuck and shit.

"I'm sorry, but no one came by but my friends—"

"So he's a friend of yours, izee?" the man said in a tone that made Severus want to punch his teeth in.

"I was going to say, my friends Harry and Hermione. It's all right, Harry," he added.

"You bet it's all right," Potter said. "For you to have whoever you want come and visit you."

"Mr. Potter," muttered the belligerent bastard. "Didn't know you were over, s'nice to see you, sir."

"My neighbors are just concerned," Lupin said. "This being a difficult time—"

"Difficult enough without strange blokes coming on our block," said Belligerent Dumb Bastard, apparently too brainless to keep his mouth shut, even with Harry sodding Potter glaring at him.

"Well, Remus just said he didn't have anything to do with that," Potter said sharply. "I believe him, so that should be good enough for anyone."

There was some muttering, shuffling, and then, eventually, the sound of the front door shutting.

"That was interesting," Lupin said slowly. Severus felt like squirming; not a feeling he was accustomed to experiencing.

"What are they talking about?" Granger asked, her hushed voice sound both worried and bewildered. "Did you see anyone of that description yesterday, around here?"

"I might have done, but everything's been so chaotic recently—people moving out, shifting around, that sort of thing—I'm not surprised they're worried, but—"

"Who do they think it is?" Potter, the Boy Who Was Thick As Two Planks, asked. "The poisoner or something?"

"Yes, Harry," said Granger.

"Merlin," Potter said. "Do you—do you think it was?"

"No," Lupin said. "I don't think he'd be daft enough to come where he wouldn't be recognized when he was fully aware he'd been stirring up national panic." Severus wasn't sure whether Lupin had just insulted him or had carefully phrased things not to.

"But if your neighbors are—are trying to hunt him up..." Granger said anxiously.

"They aren't. Not the poisoner, at any rate. They wouldn't be so bold. It's fine," said Lupin. For his part, Severus suspected Lupin hadn't told them all of the reason he'd resigned from work, or they'd be a lot more worried. Well, Granger would. Potter probably couldn't add to four. Christ, if it hadn't been for Granger, they'd still be living under the Dark Lord's heel. He shuddered, just thinking about it. The fate of the nation left up to Potter...

"Why don't you go check on Ron and the others?" Lupin said. "I'm going to spend the day at Andromeda's, I think... be with Teddy..."

"All right," Granger said; Potter murmured something similar. "Stay safe. If anything else comes up, we'll contact you, or you can contact us... we'll see you—"

"Wait," Potter said. "I don't think we should go out the front door. If they're waiting for us to leave, your neighbors, so they can come back and question you—"

"Good idea, Harry," Granger said, while Severus cursed the stupid boy six hundred ways from Sunday. Lupin was right; that boy lived to discommode him. "How should we... Should we take the fire escape? Remus? You've still got the anti-Apparition wards up, haven't you?"

Severus banished his chair and wrenched open Lupin's closet door. He stuffed himself in amongst Lupin's shoes and trousers and a waist-high stack of old shoeboxes as quietly as he could and tugged the door shut. A few moments later, he heard them shuffling into the bedroom door and experienced a couple moments' panic that he'd left his shoes in plain sight. But the window was sliding up without comment, Granger and Potter were murmuring good-byes, and a second later they Disapparated with two soft pops.

As Lupin slid the window shut, Severus let the closet door swing open. Lupin spun around, his wand in his hand.

"Severus?" he said, bewildered.

"Going to security-question me again?" Severus climbed off Lupin's shoes.

"If you'd like," Lupin said, still looking perplexed. "What kind of sugar did you put in your tea this morning?"

"Brown."

Lupin's look of worry changed to relief. "Are you all right?"

"Why are you asking me?" Severus elbowed the closet door shut. "You're the one that's being set-upon by your neighbors because I was such a priceless ass as to show up on your doorstep, in _disguise_ , in the midst of a _national panic_."

"You didn't know how bad it was," Lupin said. "I don't blame you, Severus. You didn't make people suspicious of werewolves."

Severus still felt oddly uncomfortable. He strode into the sitting-room and scanned the detritus of Lupin's vigilante sleuthing, and saw what he was looking for: the newspaper lying face-up on the coffee-table:

KEY INVESTIGATORS OF POTIONS MYSTERY DYING

_black oil boiling out of their skin_

His first thought was: _There goes the fucking Daily Prophet. What other color would oil be?_

But of course people would need that association of _blackness_ to feel properly horrified, because they had the emotional sensitivity of bedrock. He, however, felt sick.

"Bloody fucking hell," he said. He knelt beside the coffee table and started rooting for the information Potter and Granger had brought.

"It's there," Lupin said quietly, levitating it off the table.

Severus snatched it out of the air and started reading. He appreciated that Lupin was not a raging dunderhead; he'd already underscored the names from the _Prophet_ in red ink.

"We should take this back to the island," Severus said, his gaze roving over the three fat file folders Granger and Potter had delivered. "I want to make a visual apparatus of all this."

"Yes, I agree."

"What about your son?"

"I saw Teddy last night. Sunday isn't actually my day—"

"But you told Granger and Potter you'd be there. What kind of a panic do you think you'll stir up if they try to contact you at your son's home only to find you're not there?"

"Damn," Lupin muttered. He raked his hand through his hair; he'd never brushed it since getting up, it looked like, and he was still wearing his pajamas. He looked as if he'd been awake for an entire day, not just a couple of hours. "I'll send my Patronus to Andromeda, telling her I've gone somewhere to think for a bit... or that I'm looking into Portkeys to France; she'll take any messages from Harry or Hermione if I tell her that." He got up from the sofa. "I'll do that now. Be right back." He vanished into his bedroom, shutting the door.

Severus collected everything together, the folders and Sunday's newspaper (the evidence newspapers Lupin had made for him were at his grandfather's house). When Lupin emerged a few minutes later, he was dressed for going out, once again in Muggle clothes. His shirt was one of those plaid tartan ones, but in shades of blue and grey. His clothes were obviously old, yet a great deal less threadbare than the robes he'd always worn.

"Are those trousers from your 70s wardrobe?" Severus found himself asking. Indeed, Lupin's corduroy trousers looked like exactly the sort of thing he'd seen Muggles wearing when he was a teenager.

"No, Oxfam," Lupin said, incongruously smiling. "I think they belonged to _someone's_ 70s wardrobe, though, just not mine. I did have a pair an awful lot like them in '78, but they fell apart ages ago. Are you ready to go?" Then, for some reason, he looked down at Severus' feet. "D'you want to borrow a pair of my shoes? You weren't wearing any when you—and the rocks on your beach are rather uncomfortable, even with shoes on..."

"I've endured worse," Severus said, somehow intensely embarrassed at the prospect of borrowing Lupin's shoes. He was being stupid. "Let's just get it over with."

"Out the window again?" Lupin smiled once more. "I'm going to have to have a second door installed, if this is going to become a habit with all my guests."


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's some discussion in here about God/faith/the afterlife, etc. It is an intellectual exercise between the characters, almost philosophical to my mind, not a sermon from me or anybody else.

It was pouring rain on Severus' island when they Apparated in, and they both got drenched. At least Remus had the forethought to stuff the evidence into his bag, which was charmed Impervious; but it was too bad he hadn't done the same thing to the two of them. A mirror in the first-floor hall showed that they looked like a pair of bedraggled water rats, even after a couple of hasty drying charms.

"Charming," Remus said, as his reflection jeered at him. Apparently the mirrors, like the portraits, had been spelled silent. "Everything here is of a character, isn't it?" (A bit late, he wondered if that was rude.)

"Without a doubt," Severus muttered. He shot a spell at the mirror that made the reflections blot out with icy-looking mist. Remus could barely make out their forms shifting around anxiously behind the frosting on the glass.

He followed Severus along the hall to the library, where a magnificent fire was going in the equally magnificent hearth. In the daylight he could see the pale stone mantel carved with the shapes of fauns and nymphs and florid vines. But the vines all had thorns, and the expressions on the fauns' faces looked sinister, the nymphs' on the verge of terror.

"Put it all there," Severus said, pointing at a table pushed near the windows. It wouldn't have looked out of place in a banquet hall, neither for size nor grandeur.

"This way," Severus said, walking out of the library. Bemused—where were they going, if they were leaving all the information in the library?—Remus followed, trying to spell more of the moisture off his shoes, which were leaving damp tracks across the faded carpet. Once long ago, it had probably been rich and vibrant; now it was faded, and the dully glowing eyes of hidden animals stared up at him through the overgrowth, following him as he walked over their hiding places.

"I've never seen anything like some of this craftsmanship," he said. "Even at Grimmauld Place..."

"My mother has kept this place in decent repair." Severus started climbing the little spiral staircase Remus remembered from his first night there. In the daytime, Remus could see the windows set into its bricks, going up and down several flights, bisecting the dimness above and below with patches of pale and watery daylight. "Not let it go to rot, as the Blacks did—however much it deserves to rot."

Remus thought of the fauns and the nymphs and agreed.

"It's your mother's house, then?" he asked, trying not to sound as powerfully curious as he felt.

"No. It's entailed on the male line, so it legally belongs to her eldest nephew. Only he doesn't know the old woman has died." One flight up, Severus, instead of stepping into the carpeted hallway, stepped forward, as if he were going to walk straight into the wall—and then disappeared.

"Severus?" He reached out, groping for the spot Severus had disappeared to, and found his hand seized and himself pulled forward, as if through the stones, onto an empty stone corridor with walls that arched low overhead. He blinked.

"Pure-bloods are paranoid, Lupin," Severus said, "and they love to show off. This way."

Remus followed him down the chilly stone corridor, leaving more foot-prints in the tracked-through dust, glancing out the windows as they went, where the white-tipped sea churned beneath the constant drum of the rain.

At the end of the corridor was a door studded with iron. Severus traced his wand over it as if he were knitting a tambour frame; there was a series of clicks, and the door opened to a spacious set of chambers, as tatty and malevolently grandiose as the rest of the house. There were signs of living in here, broken quills and scattered sheets of parchment, a soot-blackened fireplace and drapes shoved haphazardly to one side of the window.

It occurred to Remus that each time he was seeing a little more of the house, new rooms and angles to it. He supposed it was because each time Severus grew a little less hostile and forbidding. This was the first time Severus had shown him around with even the slightest attempt at acquainting him with the place.

"This is your room?" Remus asked curiously.

"While I am in gaol," Severus said, disappearing through one of the interior doors.

Remus drifted over to the nearest window to look out. It had a view of the gardens, faintly leafy here and there at the tail end of autumn, with a ribbon of the sea just visible on the right. The solstice would be in a few days, and winter would begin in earnest, even though its season already seemed imprinted on the earth.

Severus came back in with a bundle of black cloth in his arms. "Here," he said in his soft voice, shoving the bundle into Remus' arms. "Wear those while your things are drying. Unless you want to sit around damp all day."

"Thank you," Remus said, surprised at this bit of thoughtfulness.

Severus just sniffed and retreated into the other room; the bedroom, presumably. The door shut behind him with a snap.

The robe looked like all the rest of Severus', black and rather nondescript. A slightly spicy imprint of scent clung to it, almost like incense, that Remus couldn't remember ever smelling around Severus. The hem was a little bit off the ground on him, since he was (apparently) a few centimeters taller; he'd never really noticed. The cuffs also hitched up his wrists when he bent his arms, but everywhere else the robe was quite billowy. He supposed Severus was just as skinny as he was; only the robes puffed him up.

Severus still hadn't come back, and Remus found himself beginning to nose around the room. There was a framed photograph of Lily on a particularly messy desk. She looked to be about fifteen or sixteen, and when she saw Remus she grinned and blew him a kiss. Remus didn't have a photograph of her like this, wearing her school robes with a quill tucked as if forgotten behind her ear. It must have been something Severus had taken, or someone else had and she'd given it to him.

 _Poor Severus_ , Remus thought, with a twinge to one side of his heart. Reacting like that to just a letter of hers... Remus wasn't sure if the strength of Severus' devastation was an indication of the depth of his feelings for Lily or the depth of his emotions in general. The night in the Shrieking Shack, when they'd learned the truth about Sirius and Peter, flashed into his mind—how unhinged Severus had seemed, screaming at Hermione and ready to kill both Sirius and Remus himself... worse than kill... but that, he realized in a flash of long-awaited insight, had been about Lily: at that point, Severus had thought Sirius had been the one who betrayed her and that Remus was helping him...

His eyes fell to Lily's picture; she gave him an inquiring look, tilting her head to the side. He couldn't help it; he smiled at her, but it felt sad.

"Nothing about life is fair, you know," he said to her. "You'd think it would have to be, at some point, that it couldn't manage to be unfair all the time, but I can't remember the last time someone got exactly what they deserve."

"Makes you think there must be a God, doesn't it?"

Remus jumped. While he'd been looking at Lily's picture, Severus had returned, moving as soundlessly as a ghost until he was close enough for Remus to hear his diminished voice. Severus was looking at Lily-in-the-picture, too, his face unfathomable.

"There must be some intelligent design," he said softly, still looking at her; she grinned up at them, "that continues to make everyone suffer, no matter their due."

"That's bleak," Remus said.

"Isn't that what you were just saying?" Severus rested his fingertips briefly on the top of Lily's picture frame, and then withdrew his hand. "Let us return to the library. There is much to be done."

They went back down the stone corridor and to the spiral staircase. "I suppose that's why some people believe in the afterlife," Remus said, tucking his borrowed robe around himself somewhat self-consciously. He wasn't going to say so to Severus, but he felt like he was wearing a dress. "The retribution or reward comes later."

"Yes, where no one can see it," Severus said as they emerged into the first-floor hall. "Convenient, that."

"I always figured that's where faith comes in."

Severus made a skeptical noise. "I find little value to faith, Lupin."

Remus smiled slightly. "'Faith is a knowledge within the heart, beyond the reach of proof.'"

Severus gave what was, for him, a curious look; Remus wondered if it were sardonic by intent, or simply because the lines in Severus' face had settled that way over the years.

"You never came up with that," Severus said, pointing his wand at the library doors so they'd swing shut.

"Khalil Gibran. He was a poet."

Severus' expression as he opened Remus' satchel was definitely sardonic. Remus fought the urge to smile more strongly.

"He also said that doubt is a pain too lonely to know that faith is his twin brother."

"Very profound," Severus said, beginning to lay out the evidence folders. Had this been anyone else, Remus would have said those words were sincere. But they couldn't be; it was Severus saying them. Unless, of course, he'd also forgotten how to make his voice sound purely honest. He very well may have.

"We will start with the most recent victims of the more devastating effects," Severus said, a faint, authoritative note ringing beneath the soft cadence of his voice. "Read the names out to me and I will locate their information."

"All right." Remus picked up Friday's newspaper, then today's, where he'd underlined the names with a red crayon, one of Teddy's that had migrated to his flat. He read the names out from today's first, since their list was shorter; only thirty-one.

Only.

Severus must have incanted a spell that found key words in texts, because he only flicked his wand over the bulging evidence folders and single, sometimes double, papers slid out at every instance. Severus would catch them out of the air, glance over them, and then file them to the side, satisfied. The names Remus had read glowed in golden spots on the papers when Severus held them up.

"Very well," he said, perhaps ten minutes later, once Remus had finished the list in the first paper. "Those are all the names of the... tar victims?" His face was impassive, but Remus did not miss the hesitation, however slight.

When Remus confirmed, Severus started spelling the papers across the library, where they attached themselves, fluttering, to the wall of books opposite the table and soaring windows. The shelves stretched more than four meters off the ground with a thin upper walkway forged from iron grilles curling around the back end of the room, and a sliding latter across the central portion opposite the windows. Severus lined up the evidence in a vertical row to the far left of the center, and then left it hanging there.

"Now," he said, turning back to the table. "The victims of immolation."

* * *

 

It took many hours to get the evidence on the wall, and the sun had sunk beneath the horizon by the time Remus was able to sink into a chair. The rain continued to run in brazen trails down the blackened glass, rivulets reflecting the firelight in the hearth. He felt exhausted, even though most of his work had comprised little more than following Severus' orders. Perhaps the weight was not the volume of the work but the nature of it.

He'd also eaten six times, courtesy of Severus' dreadful family house-elf, while Severus had to be badgered into drinking as much as a small bowl of soup for lunch, which he did one-handed while he skimmed through papers. It was gone four in the afternoon now, about time for tea, which Severus would probably have to be harangued into taking.

Remus watched him prowl beneath the wall of evidence, pointing his wand at this and that row and making words on the pages blink in a variety of colors—blue, green, red, silver. It was almost like he'd produced a replica of fairy lights across the vast central wall of his grandfather's dreary library. He had done almost all of the thinking that afternoon; his sleep last night had been interrupted by a bout of emotional hysteria; and yet he seemed almost energized, as if he'd just woken up from a nap, refreshed. He and Hermione had probably been cut from the same mold.

Remus got up from the table, tucking his borrowed robe around him—it had seemed too... callous to interrupt what they were doing to ask for his own clothes—and joined Severus at the opposite end of the library.

"I think we should call for tea and have a bit of a break," he said.

"Call for whatever you want," Severus said impatiently, not looking away from his wall of evidence. "I'm too busy."

Remus rolled his eyes behind Severus' back. "Unless she's had a personality transplant in the last hour or so, I don't think your house elf will listen to me."

"Fine." Severus pointed his wand at a rank-looking ancient bell-pull in the corner. It tugged itself downward, and an almost silent gong threaded through the house.

"I thought you could just call for house-elves?" Remus asked curiously; that's how Severus had done it the past six times.

"You can. That's the tea bell."

Sure enough, a few moments later a tray winked into existence on the magnificent table, full of tea and sandwiches.

"Why, how thoughtful," Remus said. "She's used the silver set. I'll just bet she was thinking of me."

Severus scowled at the innocent tea service. "That little louse. One of these days I'll drop-kick her out the fucking window."

Remus figured Severus must really loathe the family elf; that indignation couldn't possibly be for his own sake. Still, he was unable to resist. "You know, if Hermione has her way, everyone will have to be nicer to house-elves."

"Nitty would do to 'nice' what I'll do to her if she uses that sodding silver set again."

The sandwiches were cucumber and liver. Vile, but Remus had eaten worse, and to be fair, the liver was obviously of high quality. He brought Severus a cup of tea and put on one of his most innocent smiles when Severus semi-glared at him.

"Are you cold?" Severus frowned at him across the tea cup.

Remus blinked. "No, of course not. Why would you ask?"

"You keep tucking your robe around you. You've been doing it all day."

"Oh." Remus looked down at himself; sure enough, he had his arms crossed over his chest. He couldn't escape the feeling that he was about to expose himself, even though he had kept his boxers on and the robe buttoned up all the way. "I—don't usually wear robes the way wizards do. My mother was a Muggle," he explained, when Severus only kept frowning. "So she always dressed me like a Muggle boy."

"You never wore robes at all?"

"Well, I wore them at school, but I'd keep my trousers on under them. We'd visit my father's parents at Christmas and so forth, but I'd always go in my best Muggle clothes, because we... didn't exactly have a lot of money to spend on two mutually exclusive sets of clothing."

Severus eyed him from the side, past a string of hair that had fallen over his eye. He didn't seem inclined to add anything, so Remus only smiled—mostly at the thought that what he'd said basically amounted to telling Severus an anecdote from his childhood—and made to go back to the revolting sandwiches.

Remus was levitating the teapot to pour his tea into a porcelain cup he'd conjured for the purpose when he saw something blue-silver-white shimmering against the window. He looked up, startled, and realized it was a reflection of something behind him.

He turned quickly around. Across the library, Severus was staring at it, too, its glow reflecting on his face: someone's Patronus, in the form of an albatross. It turned toward Remus, arching its wings and fixing him with its blue-white eyes, and when it spoke, it used Andromeda's voice.

 _I found this spell among Dora's notes. For Order communications_ , the albatross said. _I want for us to go to France, to Narcissa. Come tonight, before Teddy goes to bed._

That was all; the next moment, it was dissipating into blue-white flecks of spell shot, and finally into nothing.

Remus stared at the spot the albatross had stood. He was aware of Severus walking toward the table end of the library, presumably so Remus could hear him speak.

"That is not a bad idea," Severus said softly, still staring thoughtfully at the now-empty space on the carpet.

"What, running off to France?"

"Gryffindors," Severus said with gentle disdain. "Are the words 'strategic retreat' in your vocabulary, Lupin? You have an infant to think of."

"This is all really rather complicated," Remus muttered, eating two of the horrible sandwiches to distract himself. The taste was definitely its own distraction. "It's like being a werewolf all over again—well, I mean, hiding that I'm a werewolf—and having to run around lying to everyone about what I'm doing. I should tell you, I'm not too good at it."

"You shock me," Severus said. Remus figured he was being mocked, but then Severus went on: "You seemed to have a knack for it earlier. You lied to Potter and Granger and those arseholes on your front step easily enough."

"Yes, when I wasn't being grilled," he sighed. "I do fine when it's just a—drive-by lie, but I'm not going to be able to make constant excuses to run off from France and pop back to England. Andromeda would hit the roof—I haven't told her I'm still looking into this, because she'd absolutely have a fit. She was ready to take my face off after the... most recent near-death experience I had."

"Hm." Severus glanced at him, an almost considering look. "I don't suppose you want my advice."

Remus blinked. "Advice... on lying in general, or for this particular situation?"

"The principles of mendacity are always the same, Lupin. One simply adapts them to suit the particulars."

"All right," Remus said, feeling, for some reason, distinctly odd. Severus had folded his arms loosely across his chest and was tracing the line of his jaw slowly, almost idly, with one finger. There was something almost hypnotic about it. "Shoot."

"Recall what you said to Granger and Potter when they were planning their little bout of breaking and entering."

"Er..." Remus honestly couldn't remember. Severus gave him the sort of look his students had probably seen whenever they added armadillo bile instead of salamander juice.

"Maybe you really are hopeless at this. You need a better memory, Lupin, if you're going to keep up with all your untruths. You said the best plans involve as little planning as possible and always incorporate the possibility for multiple explosions. Lies are much the same. At some point, someone is going to find you out. You must be ready to deal with the possibility. Your whole enterprise is geared toward delaying that moment as long as possible, and being able to handle it well enough, when it does arise, not completely to destroy your credibility thereafter."

"That sounds amazingly complicated," Remus said, more than half admiring, because he knew that Severus knew exactly what he was talking about. "I wouldn't have lasted two seconds as a double-agent."

"Of course not," Severus said softly. For a moment, it seemed as if there were an odd light in his eyes, like a lantern shining across the dark water on a sea you could make out no part of. "I know you understand what I'm saying, however."

"I don't so much map out everything as deal with what arises without losing my head," Remus translated.

"Yes. You also downplay any suspicion your behavior might arouse. The best way is to do exactly what you're asked by those who would primarily suspect you. In this case, your mother-in-law. You will do as she wishes and go to France with your son."

Remus hadn't expected him to say that at all. "But—"

"Once you are there, Lupin," Severus said with exaggerated patience, "the next step will flow logically from the course of events. You're clever enough. Something will present itself to you."

Remus was momentarily struck speechless by Severus' complimenting him on anything, let alone his intellect. Of course, he'd done it in a scornful, sneering voice, but the principle of the thing was unchanged.

"I'm trying not to be too moved by your faith in me," he said gravely.

"You needn't try very hard; it's particularly feeble."

"Severus," Remus said severely, "stop making jokes, I'm not sure my fragile system can handle the repeated shock." His gaze flitted to the wall of evidence, the illuminated portions of its text blinking out of the shadows against the walls, and he sighed, remembering the far less pleasant shocks his system had been taking for the past week. "I don't suppose you can hand-hold me through a few ideas on how to get to France, especially in this... climate?"

"Hand-holding is exactly what I am planning to do," Severus said, raising one eyebrow at him, as if Remus' doltishness was surpassing even his expectations. "I'm going to take you there."

* * *

 

If this had been Severus' house, he would have installed a clock, one that tickled loudly, just so he could listen to it; a kind of metronome to his thoughts. Since he still hadn't nagged Nitty to bring the lamps back in, he cast one of the Order's light charms to illuminate the papers better than the fire could. Mainly he cast it because it was one of Lily's, a charm she had invented during the first War. It created a little network of lights that gave off more heat than light, but not being fire, they couldn't burn anything. The papers were safe.

The lights hung pulsing in the air above the papers, working together with the firelight to tint them. To Severus, they looked like stars; not the way stars looked in the sky, when they burned blue-white like a Patronus, but the way the sun looked in Muggle photographs, a ball of yellow-golden light. But he didn't need the light to study the papers; the information felt inscribed on the inside of his mind. Now that Lupin was gone, Severus was mostly mulling. Or he would, once he got one last chore out of the way.

The Order had communicated with the Patronus, and it seemed some of its members continued to do so. Well, it was useful, and it always found its mark; but Severus had never preferred it for sending messages, and not only because his Patronus was such a dead giveaway about many things he hadn't wanted anyone to know. What he disliked most was the lack of privacy it afforded. He had clearly heard the message from Lupin's mother-in-law, even though it hadn't been intended for him. That was a liability of the system.

But the Order wouldn't use the really _useful_ sort of spells, terrified, as they were, of Dark magic. Even if it was only for a communications spell.

Most Dark spells did not have Latin bases. They were much older, stretching back through time to the magic that reigned over the British Isles before the Romans came and sanitized everything. Nor did Dark spells require wands. With the proper focus, one could cast a Dark spell entirely from force of will and incantation; but the incantation was very important to spells from that age. One reason (among many) that few wizards or witches progressed far in the Dark Arts these days was that the lengthy incantations had to be precisely delivered, and few people had that power of memory any longer.

When he was finished, an image pieced itself together out of the shadows of the library, lines of darkness paling to wisps of grey, like mist and fog and cloud, softer than a ghost but life-sized. He could see Narcissa, sitting at a small table with a bottle of wine, her head turned as if she were looking at something in the distance.

She turned toward him, her image shifting quickly, suggesting she'd moved in surprise. "Severus?" she said, her voice echoing like the sounds of the sea through fog, almost disembodied, even though she had a form of sorts.

Even though only Narcissa would be able to hear and see his image, whether alone or in a room of a hundred people, he asked: "Are you alone?"

"Yes." The mist of her image shifted faintly where it formed her face; perhaps she was raising her eyebrows, because her voice even through the broken echoes was gently arch. "The Apocalypse hasn't struck there yet, has it? For you to contact me of your own volition."

"Not yet. I am intending to stay ahead of it, in any case. I understand you wrote a letter to your sister."

Narcissa made no visible reaction, none discernible through the spell-fog, at any rate. "How on earth do you know about that? Even if you've been letting people know you're alive—which I should think I would have heard about, if only because of the nationwide manhunt—you never had any relationship with Andromeda. Severus?"

"Lupin told me. He wanted to know if the offer was genuine."

"Of course it is." The wispy lines of Narcissa's image swirled and shifted as she leaned toward him. "But I wouldn't have thought you were on any better terms with the werewolf. Don't you hate him?"

He wouldn't have thought Narcissa had really listened to his griping on the subject. Well, he'd probably done it so often, she hadn't been able to miss it. "Hating Lupin is pointless. Nothing ever comes of it."

"Now that doesn't sound like you at all, Severus," said the echo of her voice. "You covet grudges until they die of old age, and then you have them preserved in glass."

"Am I supposed to prove my identity to you, too? Fine—when you were trying to conceive Draco, you came to me complaining that Lucius wasn't optimizing the potential of his fertility because he was too busy cavorting with that opera dancer—"

"Trust you to pick a memory like that," she said, her voice sounding, for a moment, even more distant as it cooled. But then it warmed again, shifting closer. "I'll permit it because what you did to the pair of them was so truly amusing."

Yes; so amusing it wasn't until the birth of his son that Lucius had stopped trying to hex Severus on sight. Lucius' indignant fury was a fond memory to treasure always. Pure-bloods were so easy to stir into a froth.

"Very well, you're Severus... so I must suppose there is some more unpleasant purpose to seeing you like this than the simple allaying of the werewolf's anxieties...?"

"Unpleasant indeed. Have you heard the latest reports from this morning?"

"About the oil? Yes." Her voice echoed like the rushing water in a cave by the sea. "No one in France has been affected, but even their papers are beginning to pick up on the crisis in England. The French are more religious than we are—Catholics, you know... There's been some talk about Second Comings... four horsemen... separating the wheat from the chaff... all that kind of nonsense. I hear it wherever I go. What with the Dark Lord, and some business about the upcoming millennial—"

Another whisper, one not part of Narcissa's voice, was curling around the back of his mind, joining with the nudges he had been feeling all day, as the evidence on the wall slotted into place. All afternoon he had felt he was staring the answer in the face; he just couldn't see it. Now he felt it was talking rapidly in his ear, but he couldn't make out the words.

"What is the significance to wheat and chaff?" he asked absently. Most English witches and wizards were firmly nonreligious. It was hard to get enthusiastic about a religion that said you ought to be burnt at the stake. "Wheat is valuable and chaff is worthless..."

"As I understand it, that's exactly it. You separate what has value from what does not have value." Narcissa sighed, a sound like waves whispering over one another, but Severus barely heard it. He was staring up at the network of blinking lights on the wall above him.

"Not that I object to the principle," she said, "but who gets to decide who has value and who does not? What if it doesn't come out in your favor? If that's what's going on in England, he seems to have decided no one has any worth."

"Indeed." The light from Lily's star charm seemed brighter in his eyes than it should have been. That was it, wasn't it? That was it—

He summoned all his powers of normalcy, in order to turn back to Narcissa's image of mist and fog. "Thank you. I hope you and Lucius and Draco stay well."

"As do I," she said. "Do take some care of yourself, Severus, would you? And come back to France as quickly as you can. Everything in England is sick. We don't need to lose you, too."

He cut the connection, and the lines of her image dissipated like the morning mist. The backlash from the spell would come upon him soon enough, but that was all right. He had a little while yet.

He turned back to the wall, pushing the chair out of the way, and Summoned the lamp in the hall. He sent it to float about halfway up the wall and cast the charm to illuminate the word "war" on all the papers he'd tacked against the books.

Dozens of green lights blinked into sight. As he read each instance closely, he could feel the tug of the Dark spell backlash, the payment required by the nature of balance, beginning to buzz behind his eyes; but he ignored it. This _was_ it. He could feel that this was it. Everything about it fit so perfectly. The huge number of the victims—the pettiness of the early poison—the significance of the ones so brutally murdered—the fact that Lupin, Potter, Granger, and all their close friends were unharmed, while the rest of the country fell like thresh to a scythe...

The room rippled with an explosive shimmer of blue-white light. Severus spun around to see the form of Lupin's snow leopard Patronus, so bright it almost hurt to look at it.

_Severus, there's trouble, I need to bring Andromeda and Teddy with me, please, it's urgent._

A sickening fear ebbed through Severus' chest. His hands were starting to shake from the prickles of the Dark residue through his veins, but he pulled his wand from his sleeve and summoned a moment of happiness to the fore of his mind. For some reason, in that split second he thought of the photograph on Lupin's bedside table, the one of Lily hovering over Lupin's shoulder as she handed him her son.

The silver doe rocketed through the night-black window panes, moving at the speed of light.


	13. Chapter 13

Severus was already on the beach when the air cracked and Lupin appeared, this time not alone. He had his child tucked under one arm, and it was screaming, and Narcissa's sister sagged from his grip. He fell over with her and almost dropped his son.

Severus was shaking from the residue of his Dark spell, but for now he was able to box the pain away. He pulled Lupin upright, ignoring the screams of the child, and looked down at Andromeda Tonks. She was unconscious. That explained a lot.

"Severus, thank God." For some reason, Lupin pressed his hand flat against Severus' collarbone, as if searching inexpertly for his heartbeat. "Can you take Andromeda? Something hit her just before we Apparated out—I'll walk up with Teddy, he's—" He put a hand on the boy's head, as if that were the volume control, when his son's scream pitched. "He was already frightened, and then the Apparating—"

Severus had to lean all the way into Lupin to be heard over the child's hysterics and the constant noise of the sea. Lupin smelled like something charred. His nerves buzzed, and he didn't think it was entirely from the backlash.

"Go to the kitchen," he hissed.

Lupin nodded and set off with his child. Severus managed to lever Lupin's mother-in-law off the rocks and Apparate back to the house.

He left her in the room he'd given Lupin, putting a lock on the door in case she should wake up, and headed for the kitchen. On the way, he spelled all the lamps alight, sending Lily's charmed stars to burn under every shade.

Lupin was already at the back door, leaning against the outside wall and cradling his son. The boy seemed to have calmed down—he wasn't screaming, at any rate—but when Severus spelled the door open, the boy stared over Lupin's arm without raising his head, one dark eye looking out of a nest of yellow and red and black hair, striped like a poisonous snake.

"Thank you," Lupin said. He looked as if he'd lived a year in an evening.

"What the hell happened?" Severus asked.

"I think my flat got burned down."

Hoping his hand wasn't visible shaking, Severus merely pointed his wand at the door to the hall. Lupin followed him, still carrying his son, who was making no noise at all, now.

"I heard the sounds of a—well, a riot, really, just as I was leaving, but I went out the fire escape as a precaution, and I heard glass breaking just before I Disapparated..."

He trailed off. His hand returned to his son's hair. The boy was staring at the lamp they were passing, at the opaque outline of the charmed stars shivering beneath the lampshade.

"And the same thing at your mother-in-law's house?" Severus asked tonelessly. The backlash was strengthening, spotting out his vision like a migraine. He gripped the banister hard as he mounted the stairs.

"They came with fire," Lupin said. The words scraped across Severus' ears. "I don't think they really knew—I think it had to do with... the business with Artemisia Dent. Maybe they thought there'd be... justice in it. I don't know."

Justice. "Andromeda's house wasn't warded?"

"It was, but only against intruders, spells. They started burning the grass, the trees. Smoke is like air, it gets through."

Severus found himself staring at the boy. He darted a wary look at Severus, and then hid his face in his father's shoulder again. He was only a baby, really. Nothing more.

"Did they know you had a child?"

"I don't know," said Lupin. He didn't have to say the rest: he didn't want to know. A part of Severus—perhaps the part that kept trying to convince him the world was a place worth living in—didn't want to know either. It didn't want to believe that even without the Dark Lord, the world could continue to be a place where people, normal people, not psychopaths like Tom Riddle or Bellatrix or Pettigrew, were willing to murder children for any reason, even if it was just not thinking about their lives at all.

But the rest of Severus knew the truth.

"This way," he said. He said it in part so he would have an excuse to turn away from the boy, whom he both couldn't look away from and didn't want to look at.

He led Lupin to the second-floor hall.

"She's in here," he said, spelling the door open. "And that's another thing. Don't touch the doors, especially the knobs, with your hands."

"What?" Lupin said. Severus knew he'd heard; he probably just didn't understand. Why would he? He wasn't some sociopathic pure-blood.

"Use your wand to shut and open doors. Pure-bloods didn't do nasty animal things like use their hands when they could use their wands."

Lupin stared at the door in disgust. Severus agreed. But the revulsion dissipated when he looked at his son.

"What about Teddy?" he asked.

Severus frowned it over. "A Cushioning Charm should keep him away from them."

"Right." Lupin carried his son over to Andromeda Tonks' bed and tried to set him down, but the boy made an unmistakable noise of distress and clung to him more tightly. "All right; you'll stay with Dad."

Severus dragged an armchair out of the corner with a spell; Lupin sank into it with a look of exhausted gratitude.

"I should stay in here until she wakes up," he said, but his head already starting to loll against the chair's winged back. "She'll be frantic if she can't find Teddy..."

"If you wish," Severus said, "but you're about to pass out."

"I think it's just adrenaline wearing off."

"I'll send for coffee," Severus said, walking out into the hall so Lupin wouldn't see him rubbing his eyes. The back of his head was throbbing sedately, a polite indication that soon it was going to be splitting.

He wondered how difficult it would be for Lupin to convince his mother-in-law that she shouldn't give Severus up to the authorities. Did she loathe him on principle, as part of the war engine that had murdered her daughter, or would his survival not matter?

Somehow, he doubted the latter. Leglimency hadn't given him compassion, only an insight into human nature that he could have done without. Andromeda Tonks was more likely to loathe the fact that yet another worthless son of a bitch had survived when her brave daughter had not.

* * *

 

Remus tried a few simple diagnostic spells. Andromeda seemed all right, except for a bit of smoke inhalation and the bruise on her forehead; nothing too serious. Overall. Considering.

He wondered when she would wake up, and hated himself a bit for hoping it wouldn't be that soon. But he needed some time to figure out how to explain where he'd brought her.

Severus hadn't pressed on this point, a fact which had surprised Remus as much as earned his gratitude. But he'd ask soon enough why Remus had chosen to come there rather than go to Harry. It was both a logical and a reasonable question. Remus wondered how awkward it would be to explain that he had sent a Patronus to Harry, Hermione and the Weasleys, telling them to be careful because a mob was apparently after him—more than one, in fact. He hadn't had the time to soften the news, and they would probably be frantic, wondering where on earth he'd gone, since he'd been explicit that he wasn't coming to them. They'd probably have a number of choice things to say to him on the subject. So would Andromeda, when she woke up. She would demand to know why _this_ was where Remus had brought their Teddy.

Now Remus could fully appreciate Dumbledore's predicament. Everyone clambering to know why Severus could be trusted; having indelible proof as to why, and no way to say it... knowing no one would believe it, anyway, and even if they did, they'd find some way to cheapen it and make things worse. Harry had wanted to show him the memories, but Remus had refused, thinking it an unforgivable breach of Severus' privacy, that the man must have shown it to Harry only from the direst need. Dumbledore must have seen the same thing he had, last night. How could you explain, to people who didn't want to hear, the effect of someone else's despair? Perhaps it had felt so profound to him because he had lived through the same, through a sorrow so all-consuming, you lost, for a time, even the comfort of blame. There was a point of grief so deep and unfathomable that it burned away everything inside you—your guilt, your repudiation, even the memory of your happiness—and all you knew was that they were gone.

It was something you couldn't explain to someone who hadn't lived it. And it was something you recognized in an instant, once you saw its reflection on someone else's face.

Andromeda should understand, but she wouldn't. Her grief was still too new; she was still too unaccustomed to it. She wouldn't find anything to relate to in Severus. And Remus wouldn't be able to explain why she should.

Teddy was so silent and still in his arms, he must have fallen asleep. But no, he was staring fixedly across the room at a painting of a tree. It stood alone at the center of a silvered lake, cycling through the seasons, the sky behind it changing with its leaves. Its foliage, now in the full flush of summer, burnished to orange, red and gold as he watched, then stripped away in winter, the branches bare and alone, before finally renewing in spring, thin but hopeful. In spring, the sky was lit by the dawn; in summer, noon; by autumn, it was dusk; and in winter only the cold stars shone in a diamond-bright net across the sky. It was a beautiful painting.

"It'll be okay," Remus said quietly, more from the need to break apart the silence than anything else. He stroked Teddy's hair, which had finally dissolved from the angry red, yellow and black. In fact, it was now mimicking the painting: red-orange during the autumn, then black in winter, like the tree's barren trunk and leaves.

There was a clinking out in the hall, and a moment later Severus reappeared, floating a tray along in front of him. This tray had no silver pieces on it. Was that why he'd gone to get it himself, or had he needed time to think? Severus in his disdain had always seemed perfectly composed, but the look on his face on the stairs, when Remus had told him about the smoke, and he'd asked _Did they know you have a child_...

Severus set the tray on a small table he'd floated next to Remus' chair for the purpose. Remus' tired senses caught the spicy tang of coffee.

"Thank you, Severus."

Severus was looking at Teddy, watching his hair transform from black to dappled green, and then to the bright verdancy of summer. Teddy stared back at him, silent but alert.

"That's remarkable," Severus said quietly.

Remus smiled and smoothed his hand through Teddy's hair. "Thank you," he said, even though it wasn't his talent. Somehow, he felt he should thank Severus for compliments. He was so sparing with them, Remus hadn't actually thought he ever gave any out.

Looking into Severus' face, Remus noticed for the first time subtle signs that Severus wasn't feeling well. There was a tautness that Remus recognized as suppressed pain.

"Are you all right?"

"I am having a migraine, I think. It's nothing unusual."

"Should you go to bed?"

"In time. I need to speak with you."

Remus sensed this was an out-in-the-hall sort of conversation.

"Get some coffee first," Severus said, and then retreated from the room, his eyes darting toward Andromeda with a kind of wariness.

"Er—can I touch this tea set?" Remus asked. It was made of a cheapish-looking brown porcelain, chipped in places but well-polished.

"You may. It's innocuous."

Remus poured himself coffee and carried his cup and his son out into the hall. Severus cast a wordless charm that prickled over the exposed backs of Remus' hands as it passed by. Teddy morphed a pair of fox ears onto the top of his head, turning them curiously outward. Severus stared.

"What was that charm?" Remus asked, careful to keep his voice only mildly curious.

"Muffling charm. I don't want her to know I'm here." Severus fixed Remus with a stare that seemed to dart straight through the layers of his clothes and skin and blood, straight to his heart. "Or that I'm living."

"I'd thought about that," Remus admitted. He took a drink of the coffee to fortify himself, which worked well because he hadn't palliated it with sugar or milk and it was tough as nails. Severus brewed coffee like it had personally insulted him. Barely managing not to cough, he asked, "Do you have any ideas on how I'll explain the house to her?"

"I'm going to Polyjuice into the Muggle. It's how I'll take you to France. Tell her I worked for the Order during the Second War, after the Dark Lord returned to the public. Simple lies, Lupin."

"Right," he said, a little dazed. He wondered if it would work, but Severus had been doing this for... a very long time. "Simple. You worked for the Order. That's why I trust you."

"Precisely."

"Have you got a name?"

"Eleazar Prince. She'll probably recognize the surname, depending on how much she remembers. From what I know of my mother's family, they won't fraternize with blood-traitors, so she shouldn't know the difference between a made-up cousin and a real one."

"Eleazar Prince," he repeated. Severus was able to think this clearly with a migraine? "Right." He drank more of the coffee, scalding his throat and offending his taste buds. His eyes watered.

Something in Severus' gaze flickered, but all he said was, "Lie down, Lupin. Endure the coffee, eat what's on the tray. Don't let your son or mother-in-law wander about the house. For that matter, don't do it yourself."

"Oh, I remember the mad aunt, I assure you."

"More than that." Severus pointed to a set of vaguely familiar double doors down the hall on the left. "That is the room I am currently using. I have taken the sealing enchantments off the doors, so they can be used, but if you need me, send a message rather than knocking."

"No touching the doors," Remus said absently. "Right. We'll be fine. You should get to bed, too, if you've a migraine."

"I'm going." Severus seemed to hesitate. "Don't do anything stupid," he said after a moment.

Remus blinked. "What would I do?"

"I haven't any idea, but you're a Gryffindor. I'm sure you could come up with something."

Remus found himself smiling very slightly. "I will restrain all Gryffindor impulses for the time being. How's that?"

"I'll believe it when I see it."

"Severus?" he said as Severus turned to go. "Thank you."

"You said that already," said Severus quietly.

"If I said it a thousand times, it wouldn't come near being enough."

Severus glanced at him from the side, along his cheekbones. Remus noticed that he only did this at certain times. He wondered if it had any significance.

"If you can restrain your Gryffindor impulses to the point of uttering absurdly chivalrous remarks," Severus said, "we might all get some sleep. I'll speak to you later, Lupin."

He slipped down the hall and through the doors to his chambers. The next moment, his doors clicked shut, and the hall sank into silence.

* * *

 

Severus boxed himself in his borrowed chambers. First he shut the doors to the hall; then the door to the bedroom; then the door to the bathroom. There he knelt beside the tub and turned the hot water all the way up, until the air started to crust with steam and the mirror and windows glazed.

He unfastened his robe and tossed it to the side, and lay down on the bathroom floor in his shift, pressing his cheek against the cool tiles. Everyone had their own way of dealing with Dark backlash. Bellatrix had had her torture; Lucius the strongest drink he could get his hands on, the kind that obliterated a tenth of your brain cells with one shot; Narcissa had Draco. And Severus had his "sauna time," as Regulus had called it. Only once, though. Severus had made sure he'd never dared say it again, but he'd never been able to get the phrase out of his head, all the same. It _was_ a sauna, basically. But it helped him relax. It was like Occlumency for the body, obscuring the world around him until he was capable of dealing with it again.

The communication with Narcissa had been a minor spell, so the backlash wouldn't be very much. He'd endure the migraine, perhaps for a couple of hours; but then it would fade, leaving him with only the aftereffects, and he could take an analgesic. It was unwise to ingest any kind of pain suppressant while the backlash worked its way through you. Dark magic required a price from you, its vessel, and it took your use of it seriously. Which meant it took its use of _you_ seriously. You had to pay for what you'd bought.

For a time he tried not to think of anything, but as usual—even when his head was crackling with pain—he was unable to shut down his brain. It was always working. He often had trouble sleeping at night because he couldn't just stop thinking. He had long ago learned to pick one thought, one very strong thought, and focus on that; but if he wasn't careful his mind would whittle the thought down into a stream, and there would go his chance at rest. That wasn't his trouble at the moment: _that_ was searching for one strong thought to pin down, and having too many contenders jostling for prominence.

He found himself thinking about Lupin's child. The boy looked like the Blacks, the ones who had caught Severus' notice from the first moments of his crossing from the Muggle to the magical world as a child of eleven. He looked like Bellatrix, like Sirius Black, the suggestion of that same dark beauty already sculpted in his small face. He could alter his appearance, like his mother; but effortlessly, it seemed, his hair shifting through a kaleidoscope of colors. And he'd clearly sensed the magic of Severus' spell as it went past. That was rare, especially in a child so young. He would probably be an extraordinary wizard, when he grew up.

If he got to grow up.

Severus opened his eyes, looking up through the steam. It was a reflex; there was nothing to see, and he didn't want to see anything, unless it was a packet of answers. But those were never delivered by grace. You had to work for them, suffer for them, and usually you wound up getting them wrong anyway.

Lupin's story of the mob had shaken him—they had brought fire—but he still felt, somehow, that his theory about the poison was correct and Lupin was safe—from the poisoner, if not from his fellow citizens. No, not from his fellow citizens at all. But unless Severus was very far off his mark—and again, he did not think so—the poisoner was distinct from many of Britain's magical souls. Severus felt the truth of it, the way he knew how to doctor a potion to achieve different results, the way he'd known Lily was a witch from the first moment he'd seen her. War heroes were safe from this man. Innocent children were safe. He had checked, and every child—about a hundred—who had suffered by this potion had only had their mouths filled with mud, and they had all belonged to families who had been known, even if only by sideways whispers, to be Traditionalists—anti-Muggle-born.

If you tried to debase another human being by your words, then your mouth filled with the measure of your disgust. He was certain that was what this man was saying. Mud for Mudblood. Oh, the word hadn't been the trigger—you couldn't trigger a potion with a word—but either this man had heard his victims say it or he'd guessed they would. Perhaps he'd known it, the way Severus was sure he knew what was going on.

It was symbolic, all of it. The heads turned backwards, disfiguring them; the eyes rotating in their skulls, leaving them blind... the fire, and now the tar... It was all significant. He had wondered why the man had delivered no message to his victims—why he'd just left the country in a turmoil, everyone clamoring to understand with no way of doing so—but now he believed he understood the man hadn't needed to send words. The potion was his message. He wanted them to understand what they'd done by what he was doing to them.

He was punishing them.

Narcissa was righter than she knew, when she spoke of the Dark Lord tainting England. Severus would bet his wand that this man felt the same. He was punishing the nation for what it had done or failed to do. The majority of their world hadn't fought in the war; they had just kept their heads down, hoping to wait it out—for Potter to save them, for the Dark Lord not to notice them (unless it was favorably). All of the crimes against Muggle-borns, all the wands confiscated; the Snatchers and Death Eaters who had brutalized the peace; who had made Muggle-born witches and wizards feel not just worthless but wrong, as if their _existence_ was a crime.

Then there were people like Artemisia Dent, who'd made certain that Lupin, who'd sacrificed his fucking life so that people like her could walk through life without looking over her shoulder to see where the nearest Death Eater was, had made certain that he would never be able to raise his child. Her husband, like Umbridge in Azkaban, had passed through laws violating the rights of Muggle-born witches.

Severus had looked. He had pored over those papers for an entire day, and he was dead certain that every single person there had committed a crime. They had, in some way, done something that had supported the Dark Lord and hurt someone else—someone innocent of any tangible crime; someone targeted as a means to an end, even if that end was only unrelenting hatred. Muggle-borns. Children. Werewolves. People who fought and were captured and imprisoned and murdered so all these worthless, hate-filled creatures of malice could live out their malevolent little lives in a world free of the Dark Lord. So they could sleep at night, after everything they'd done, while Lupin had his child and his wife taken away from him.

Severus could almost admire this man, whoever he was. He understood the wellspring of hatred; the grief at the unfairness of life; the need to make someone pay. And the payment never felt as good as when it was coming from someone who owed it. Severus knew that he could have done what this man did. There had been a time when he'd have done it and relished it. A younger Severus would have sought this man out, seeking a way to be part of this merciless justice from the judge's end.

But he was not that Severus any longer. As long as you lived, you changed. Not everything, but parts of you. It was like an old heirloom that had broken down, an ancient chair that belonged to your grandmother. One day it needed a new leg; so a new piece of wood was carved and varnished and fitted into place, so the chair wouldn't wobble so much. Eventually all four legs would be replaced; and the seat would be rewoven; a new back attached; the arms sanded again and painted over. But no one ever said, "There's a new chair." It was always the same chair, even if it had been rebuilt entirely, every part of it different from what it once had been.

Every hour of the day changed you, in some way. Some people just never made anything of it. Bigger events caused bigger alterations. Dying and then escaping England had altered Severus significantly. Cold darkness had stretched through years of his life—living without kindness for so long; living beneath the damp earth of the dungeons; dying, if only for a moment, in the blackness of that shack—but then had come the golden light filling the canals in Venice, burnishing the countryside; filling the places in his heart that had for so long remained cold and empty and silent. The light always left again, as the sunlight always left the day when night turned across the earth; but at least he had found out that it could exist there at all, for a time.

He wanted to return to it. He wanted out of this house, a cruel reminder of things he had once coveted by second-hand report, in reality as worthless as dross. He wanted out of England, where the light was too thin and feeble. He wanted away from all the men and women and children being punished for their cruelty, their bitter complacency, their fear turned outward. As soon as Andromeda Tonks regained consciousness, Severus would turn into someone else, and he'd lead Lupin and his family from this cold, dark place, farther than the shadows could reach.


	14. Chapter 14

_December 20_

Someone was in bed with Remus.

It had been a long time since this had happened. No one had lain beside him since Dora, or stroked their hands across his chest with a touch that was meant both as a reverence and an enticement.

This was a male someone.

He couldn't remember the last time he'd had a male lover, but it hadn't been like this, with these languid touches over his chest and hips and thighs that brought him up from sleep... not gentle, because of the intent, but... precise. Communicative. Very slowly arousing.

He kept his eyes closed, but he tilted his head back and let his body sigh into the mattress, to let his lover know he was awake. The touch slipped up his chest and then down, dead center... and then at the last moment skated away over his hipbone and down to his thigh, curling over the soft inside; then lower, to the ticklish flesh behind his knee.

He made a soft growling noise. The hands left his skin altogether—but something returned before his heart had a chance to beat once: legs, sliding on the outside of his; the inside of his lover's thighs brushing over his hips; his lover's arms pressing to either side of his own, and his breath tracing over Remus' collarbone.

"Was that growl meant to intimidate me?" his lover murmured. He feathered a breath against Remus' skin, and then trailed a long, hot one up his throat. A nip just under his ear. Remus gripped the back of his lover's thighs; his flesh was hot and soft.

"How much more am I going to have to tease you," his lover's voice breathed in his ear, as Remus tightened his grip, "before you'll _take me_?"

And then he bit down—

Something jolted Remus' whole body. His eyes snapped open.

Countryside stripping past the window—the train rattling around him—Teddy trying to tear into a packaged bun with dragon fangs, while Andromeda watched with exhausted fondness. For a couple of seconds, he was still utterly confused, and then he remembered:

The train to France. To the Malfoys in Marseille.

"I thought I'd let you sleep," Andromeda said over the sound of Teddy reducing the bun to shreds. "Since you were up with him most of the night."

Remus sat up, rubbing at his eyes. His shoulder muscles twinged, and the tendons in his neck, and his back... what was that he'd said to Severus, about not being quite forty? At the moment he felt about seventy.

"Thanks," he said, arching his back to the sound of reluctant pops. "Oh."

"You should probably get up and walk a bit," Andromeda said, holding Teddy's no-spill out to him (he shook his head vigorously). "Pop the rest of the joints."

"I'll take you up on that advisement."

"That Ebenezer Prince fellow's in the dining car, I believe. Still."

Remus controlled his wince, not only at the frosted disapproval in Andromeda's voice, but at the reminder of how he'd botched Severus' fake identity. In the face of Andromeda's panicked fury, Remus had been completely unable to recall the name Severus had given him, only that it started with an 'e', and had blurted out the first e-starting-name that popped into his head. With the story they'd concocted of old War ties, it would have been impossible to play off not being familiar with Severus-the-stranger's name, so he'd been stuck with Ebenezer. Every time Remus said the name (always apologetically) Severus skewered him with a glare as bad as those from the year he'd been teaching at Hogwarts.

In order to mend this flaming bridge, Remus had decided to give Severus his Christmas present a bit earlier than planned. He had rather-sort-of been getting on with Severus, and he had apparently gotten used to it. Severus' glares made him wince in a way they hadn't done since he was a teenager.

"You're sure he knows where we're going?" Andromeda asked for the hundredth time.

"Positive," Remus said, as calmly as he'd said it ninety-nine times before. He knew Andromeda's worry was more general than particular. He felt it, too; not from mistrust of Severus, but from a persistent doubt that they could get free of this poison as simply as they'd done so far. A trip to Charing Cross, a stop at Folkstone; boarding the train across the Channel; from Calais to Paris; and now down the length of France, across rivers, through valleys, and along the glint of the Rhone. The sky was only partly cloudy, strips of blue visible at highest altitudes and white-gold light tinting the fields and windows. Already he felt lighter. He wondered if that was a dangerous delusion.

They had chosen a Muggle train to minimize their visibility, although it made transporting Teddy rather difficult. Remus had conjured a variety of hats, and either he or Andromeda would lurk in loos or waiting rooms, trying to distract him from the discomfort of the hats while the other two wrangled with the details of ticket-purchasing and queues and compartment-finding. It worked well enough until Teddy started to get tired of the compartment. He'd been tired of this last one for about the last five hours.

The tables in the dining car all had white cloths; the flatware, glasses and cutlery jangled and tinkled as he walked down the aisle. Severus, in that stranger's body, was sitting all the way at the far end of the car right next to the door, staring out the window with his chin in his hand. Remus had the thought that it didn't seem like a very Severus thing to do, and that made him wonder just how much he was presuming about Severus. Or did Severus make his disguises so consummate that he could adopt different mannerisms to suit them?

At Remus' approach, he looked up without a trace of surprise but with a definite glare. The sight was odd: the glare _reminded_ Remus of Severus; not just because it was a glare, but because it was _his_. With that expression on the stranger's face, it was as if Severus was looking at him from beneath an opaque surface.

Remus might wince now, but he was still able to smile. He took a seat across from Severus in the pool of sunlight ebbing out from the window. The silverware glinted and prisms formed on the surface of the water glasses, blinding him for one pinpoint moment.

"Did your mother-in-law drive you out?" Severus asked, his personal sneer shining through the stranger's face. "Or perhaps this is a sanity measure."

"Teddy's getting a bit fractious," Remus admitted.

Severus didn't seem to believe this deserved a remark. It didn't. They'd covered nearly a thousand kilometers of train track, and Teddy wasn't the best-behaved child in any case.

Remus shifted in his chair and felt the packet of photographs pinch his thigh. A momentary apprehension pricked him, asking if this were really a good idea, giving Severus the photographs... but then the prismatic light glinted silver-white off the faceted crystal on the table, and he remembered the form of the Patronus that had burst shimmering through the shields and the smoke. He hadn't seen that doe in twenty years.

"I have something for you," he said, smiling just in case.

"A serial killer?" Severus asked sardonically.

"I'd never thought of him like that before," Remus murmured. "But I suppose he is, isn't he?" He shook himself. "No, it's... well, I'm not sure if it's more cheerful than that, to be honest." Figuring he might as well make the leap—again—he pulled out the packet and held it out to Severus.

Severus stared at it. Remus had conjured green wrapping paper but left off anything more decorative. He was glad he'd done the minimum, because Severus was looking astonished enough.

"It's a Christmas gift," Remus explained, fighting the urge to smile even more widely. "You accept and then open it."

"Why?" Severus asked, still looking bewildered.

"I suppose it's generally because you want to see what's inside."

Skewering glare. "I _mean_ , Lupin, why are you giving it to _me."_

"Generally it's because I want you to have it." When Severus still made no move to take it, he set the package on the table next to Severus' hand.

"It's something else on a bit of a... sensitive topic," Remus said, because he didn't want the photographs to take Severus by surprise the way the letter had done. "One we were... discussing earlier."

Severus' eyes snapped up. At least the eyes of this Muggle were dark; it was at least something familiar.

He didn't say anything, only picked up the present and slid it inside his coat. When he took a drink of water, the ice in the glass clinked against the sides.

Remus decided the nicest thing he could do would be to change the subject. "How much longer to Marseille?"

Severus cleared his throat. "Perhaps two more hours."

Remus sighed and rubbed at his hairline along his temples. "I never thought I'd say this, but I can't wait to get to the Malfoys'."

"I can't wait to see Narcissa's face when you show up on her doorstep," Severus muttered.

Remus smiled, but it faded as memories of the present drifted across the landscape of his mind. He thought of what Severus had told him; what meaning he thought lay behind the deaths and disfigurement of more than half their magical population.

"Do you still think he's looking for retribution? Whoever he is?"

"Yes," said Severus without looking away from the window. Shadows and sunlight patched his face as they crossed the countryside. "Or if you don't want to call it that, a redress of the balance." The dark eyes cut back toward Remus. "Someone to blame, at least."

Severus was certain. Remus could tell, even without passionate declarations. He had felt Severus' certainty last night, although he hadn't been able to share it. It wasn't that he disbelieved the theory, it was that he felt nothing either way, neither certainty nor uncertainty. As a conclusion, it just felt... like an echo. He wondered if anything could make the events of the past week make sense.

"Have you been able to think who it might be?" he asked Severus.

"No one from my experiences stands out. If it was any of my students or _fellow_ students, they've blossomed from mediocre idiocy since I knew them."

There was a thread in Severus' voice that made Remus think this fact bothered him. Remus knew better than to ask. Or to joke that perhaps the student's talents had flourished outside of Severus' unnerving presence.

"If you're worried about the Malfoys—" Severus continued.

"I'm not," Remus said honestly, before he could stop himself.

Severus looked at him then. It almost seemed like there was a kind of smile in his face.

"Perhaps not," he said, the soft cadence of his voice curling across the table. "But you needn't be worried about yourself. He's not going to target a decorated war hero."

"How can you be sure?" Remus said in a rush.

Severus didn't answer right away. Strangely, this was reassuring. Severus would never be the sort of person who tried to stall anxiety with platitudes.

At last he said, "Call it faith, Lupin."

Against all logic, Remus felt himself smile. He looked out the window, just as Severus was doing, where the sunlight glittered on the deep blue surface of the Rhone.

"You can call me 'Remus,' you know," he said.

Severus waited so long to reply, Remus thought he wasn't going to. But then he said, even more softly than usual, "I'll take it under consideration."

* * *

 

The Malfoys' house was actually Narcissa's, and it was concealed from the eyes of Muggles on the limestone cliffs of Marseille. In the setting light, the deep, cobalt water lay wrapped up in the shining calanques far below.

Severus took point up the steps carved into the cliff-face. He was tired in that particular way one got after traveling. How did sitting still for an entire day take such a toll on the body?

At least he didn't look as bedraggled as Lupin. Remus? Whatever; that was for figuring the fuck out later. Along with the Christmas present Remus—Lupin—the infuriating werewolf— had given him. Something to do with Lily, but what?

Severus needed to focus. At least the whelp was asleep (on Lupin's shoulder). Lupin and his mother-in-law looked as grateful for that as they'd been exhausted when he was awake.

Andromeda Tonks gazed up at the winding rise of stairs above them, squinting in the setting sun.

"This was our house," she said in a voice that spoke from behind old memories.

"Your house?" Lupin asked very quietly, perhaps to avoid waking the holy terror that was his offspring.

"We spent some months of the summer here," Mrs. Tonks said, her voice almost lost in the wind. "I hadn't thought of it in a long time." In a more immediate tone, one that cooled as she spoke, she said, "I suppose it became part of Narcissa's dowry."

It had, but Severus didn't think it would be prudent to confirm that.

They gained the outer courtyard as the sun lay molten on the horizon of the sea. Past the limestone arch of the outer wall, Severus could see the double front doors, the front windows opaque in the twilight. The torches had lit with the dusk, cobwebbing the environs with patches of shadow and light.

He started to step forward through the arch when he remembered the Disenchantment wards. They cut through all enchantments of concealment and disguise. When he stepped through them, he'd be Severus Snape again, not the Muggle. Mrs Tonks would know he was alive.

"Your Patronus," he said curtly, only half-looking at her. She was standing beside Lupin—or rather, beside her grandson. He didn't think it was an accident that she had hovered the whole way up on Lupin's right side, the shoulder on which his son was sleeping. "To let Mrs Malfoy know we are here."

"She's not expecting us?" said Mrs Tonks, looking him straight in the eye. She wasn't a Leglimens, but she was uncomfortably shrewd. In fact, she reminded him a great deal of Narcissa.

"Forgive me; I did not realize you wanted to alert her with a mass murderer on the loose."

Where her daughter would have blushed and knocked something over, Mrs Tonks only gave him a sardonic look. Pure-blood women were forged from iron.

She withdrew her wand from her traveling coat, closed her eyes and breathed evenly for a few moments. Then the albatross soared from the tip of her wand and glided across the courtyard and into the house, disappearing through the limestone walls in a burst of spell shot.

They weren't kept waiting for long in the sharp wind surging over the top of the cliffs. When the front doors swung open, it was Narcissa who emerged from the cavern of the house, not a servant. Her face was starkly pale, and she had her wand clenched in one hand, but she was alone. In fact, Severus saw no other signs of movement within sighting distance; only the skiffs sailing on the water far below.

Narcissa drew to a halt on the other side of the Disenchantment Barrier. Her first instinct was to locate her sister, but once she had, she noted who the rest of them were, too. Her composure was so ingrained that Severus was only rewarded a flicker of revolted dismay at the sight of Lupin; in fact, he might have missed it if he hadn't been watching for it. But strangely, the smug enjoyment he'd anticipated at Narcissa's discomfort was entirely absent. All he felt was annoyed.

"Andromeda," Narcissa said, her voice uncharacteristically hushed. "You came."

"As you can see." Mrs Tonks only sounded cold. "You don't seem to be expecting us, though."

"Not in so many words." Narcissa's eyes flicked to Severus, who extended a finger, where his hand lay limply at his side; an old signal. She looked into his eyes, and he sent her the scrap of a memory: "introducing" himself to her sister in the Prince mansion, a warning about the barrier, and Lupin's embarrassed voice saying _This is Ebenezer Prince._

Severus really should kick him.

"Ebenezer was rather... vague when we spoke," Narcissa said smoothly. Severus sawLupin turning his head to stare at him. "But he's always been cautious. Although in this climate, I would only call it prudence. I am grateful that you've come. Will you come inside?"

"Just walk in?" Mrs Tonks said, still cold.

Narcissa touched her wand against the barrier; it rippled silver, like raindrops falling in a sheet across the still surface of a lake. "Yes."

Mrs. Tonks stepped beneath the archway. Nothing happened to her, of course. She was family. Severus wondered if Narcissa had adjusted the barrier to allow hostile intent in the case of blood relatives.

"You too, Mr. Lupin," Narcissa said, with the chill of utter civility. She gestured toward the front doors, where a house-elf stood in respectful, cowering servitude. "Paddy will show you to chambers." Then she turned back to Severus. "How do you do, Ebenezer? Will you also be needing chambers?"

She had calculated well; her sister strode into the house without looking back at him. Lupin followed her, glancing once over his shoulder at Severus and sending him a slight smile; but whatever the message was, Severus didn't know.

"She doesn't know who you are, then?" Narcissa asked in a lower voice as her sister and Lupin were swallowed by the caverns of the house.

"I didn't think it prudent to tell her. She's extremely protective of the child, and I'm still regarded as something of a mass-murderer."

"You can get in by the back door," Narcissa said. "Paddy won't have taken her anywhere near the kitchens."

The Disenchantment Barrier wrapped around the house, but once he washed through the back gate, Severus was able to lurk in the bowels of the kitchen as himself. When Narcissa turned up in the kitchen, Severus wondered if it was the first time in her life she'd been there.

He eyed her all-black clothing. "Is Lucius worse, then?"

"No improvement." There was no indication that her husband's condition weighed on her, but there wouldn't be; Narcissa was a pure-blood daughter and an accomplished Occlumens. She thought that emotions were a bit unseemly. "I am more worried about Draco."

"Has he caught a venereal disease yet?"

"If he hasn't, it's only a matter of time," Narcissa said, softly scornful. "He squanders his days in the company of whores. The good news, I suppose, is that he and Andromeda won't trouble each other; he's never home."

Severus had very little anxiety to spare for Draco. He felt flickers of emotion whenever he heard about the boy, but it was no more than that, really. Draco squandered more than his time; he was utterly wasting his potential. Severus had once had such hopes for him...

Of course, Narcissa had it the worse. She possessed a mother's hopes, which would have had all her strength, and none of the willful blindness that some parents were blessed to enjoy. She wasn't the sort of woman to be bothered by Draco's petty cruelty, but she would bitterly lament his lack of resource, the ash of his ambitions. Her son had survived the war to live a life of sulky carousing with low-class women of no virtue. Severus supposed Narcissa had resigned herself.

"Speaking of disappointments, Severus," she said, "what in Salazar's name were you thinking, bringing that half-breed werewolf here?"

"You wanted to see your great-nephew. I'm afraid his father is part of the bargain."

Narcissa raised her eyebrows faintly, with chilly disdain. "That creature is subhuman."

"Unfortunately for us all, that distinction doesn't mean what it used to."

Narcissa only looked at him. Because she Occluded constantly, even when she wasn't in states of intenser emotion, Severus couldn't tell what she was thinking.

"I will make a bargain with you," he said. "Be _civil_ to Lupin and I will... endeavor to straighten Draco out."

Narcissa appeared to consider it, then gave a delicate shrug. "Very well. I've done worse for Draco's sake, certainly."

"Thank you," Severus said sardonically.

Narcissa sighed. "This is you all over, Severus. The first time you respond to one of my invitations, you turn up with a werewolf and want me to be _nice_ to it."

"Very perverse of me."

"Yes, well, I preferred it when you hated it. Do you remember the way to your room? It's the same one as last time."

"Of course I do."

"Of course you do," she murmured. "Good night, then, Severus. Peaceful dreams be with you, I hope."

* * *

 

Whatever she was to werewolves and other half-breeds, servants, the middle- and-lower classes, blood traitors, the nouveau riche, and foreigners, Narcissa was good to Severus: she allotted him one of the nicest guest-rooms, the Sky Room. Its walls were bewitched to reflect the landscape outside, so that the room gave one the illusion of standing out on the open cliff, only with less wind and more fine home furnishings. Tonight the ceiling was patchy with partly-cloudy skies and stars and boats glittered out on the water. On the westward wall, he could see the golden glow of Marseille on the water line.

The room itself was quite peaceful. Having no personal resources of tranquility, Severus liked it. He had always appreciated surroundings that functioned as a kind of physical manifestation of Occlumency.

He was just wondering if he was more in the mood to light the lamp or brood in the dark, and deciding in favor of the dark, when someone tapped on his door.

"Yes?" Severus hissed at the door, hating his weakened voice.

"It's me," said Lupin.

Severus blinked. When he opened the door, Lupin stood smiling at him in the soft glow from the lamps in the corridor.

"What do you want?" Severus said, bewildered.

"May I come in?" Lupin whispered back. "Or should we just stand in the hall and whisper?"

Severus let him in with a silence that he hoped was indicative of disapproval at Lupin's frivolity and not an odd press of anxiety. In the faint glow from the enchanted walls, Severus could see Lupin looking around at the room as Severus shut the door.

"This is really very beautiful," Lupin said.

"That surprises you."

"Considering this house belonged to the Blacks, yes. I continually get the impression from pure-bloods that they only like to use magic in some sort of race to be horrible."

"It's not a mistaken impression. What _do_ you want?" Severus had decided to avoid using Lupin's name entirely for the present. He still hadn't made up his mind whether or not to call him 'Remus,' but he felt, somehow, that turning down Lupin's invitation to use his given name might... hurt his feelings. The thought of hurting Lupin's feelings induced a cramping awkwardness in his stomach, quite unlike anything he could remember feeling in a very long time.

"Well, initially I was looking for you to find out if everything was all right. When you didn't follow me and Andromeda, you know."

"Initially?" Severus said when Lupin paused. His expression was impossible to make out in the relative darkness, but his voice was as expressive as his face would have been in the light.

"Well, I tracked you to the kitchen, and I heard you talking to Narcissa. It was really very kind of you, to say what you did."

Severus was grateful, now, that he had erred on the side of no lamp. "I said something 'kind'? Somehow I doubt it."

"You did," Lupin said. Severus could hear the smile. "Thank you, Severus."

Severus had no idea what to do with this gratitude. The good thing about Lupin, however, was that he wasn't the type to stop expressing it just because its recipient failed to acknowledge it properly. Severus had never managed to respond to consideration in the way everyone expected—whatever way that was—and most people gave up after one or two tries; but Lupin kept it up. Perpetual kindness just seemed to be a part of him, like the lines on his face, his lycanthropy.

"Are you settled in, then?" he muttered instead.

"Yes—quite a nice set of chambers, too. Andromeda's lying down with Teddy, she may even have gone to sleep, tired as she was. I figured I'd get back there, too, in case he wakes up in the middle of the night. It's a strange place, so he might be a bit unsettled."

Severus felt he had some sort of score of niceness to settle. "You're a good father," he said, so stiff it sounded as if his words were being chipped out of stone.

There was a pause. Just as he was growing certain that this had been a supremely stupid thing to say, Lupin said, "Thank you, Severus. That means a lot to me."

The gentle warmth in his voice made Severus' awkwardness intensify. He _blessed_ the lights being off; he didn't even know where to look in the fucking darkness.

"You'll want to be getting back, then," he muttered.

"With all the traveling, it feels later than it is," Lupin said, with a slight laugh. "Good night, Severus." As he went by, he laid his hand on Severus' arm. It felt like a jolt from a spell, one that didn't hurt but that filled you with a warm, electrical pulse. Except Severus didn't think there was a spell like that. There was a great deal of magic that hurt, and there was some of it that healed; but a wizard only felt that kind of warm rush from _doing_ magic. How could something like a touch have an effect that spells did not?

It had felt like that when Lupin had given him the present, too.

Severus waited until the door had shut behind Lupin and his steps had faded to silence down the hall before lighting a lamp near the windows. Sitting in the chair beside it, he withdrew the package and picked its Sellotape open. His heart was beating hard enough for him to be aware of it.

Inside was a kind of leather folder, about the size of a paperback book. He slid his fingertips along the edges and let it fall open, and saw...

Lupin had given him photographs of Lily.

There were about eight of them all total, and she was by herself in every one—neither of the Potters, not Black nor Pettigrew, none of her female friends, not even Lupin were present. (And none of them were from her damned wedding day.) But she was happy in every one of them, and they were all from those years of her life that had been closed to him.

Until just the other day.

He didn't know how long he stared down at the open folder in his hands before closing it. He felt as if, like the folder, he'd been pulled open. But there was no easy closing.

He lay down without undressing, the folder with its photographs still beneath his palm, and watched the lights on the sea chasing each other across the ceiling. Just before he slipped beneath the weight of sleep, he thought that he wouldn't have minded if Lupin hadn't left himself out of every photograph.

He dreamed eventually, of places filled with sunlight. Lupin was there, lit by the powerful light that filled the spaces along the Mediterranean. When he smiled, it warmed the dark places in Severus' heart in a way only that sun had previously done.

"It's nice, here," Lupin said in the dream, which was an amalgam of Venice, Marseille, Corfu; waters of jade and cobalt, golden light, crowds without faces, surroundings bright in the daylight. "Were you happy here?"

"I don't know what it means to be happy," Severus said.

"Then how do you make your Patronus so strong?" Lupin said, still smiling.

"I don't know," Severus said.

Lupin smiled, more softly but stronger somehow, and then he kissed him. Even though it wasn't real, only a dream, Severus woke up floating on the thought that no one had done that in more than twenty years.

He hadn't been asleep for very long; the room was still dark, still touched by the light from the boats trailing on the water out to sea. He hadn't even moved from the position in which he'd fallen asleep.

Now he knew what the anxiety meant, the nervousness; the twists and flutters and odd desire to say and do things that would please Lupin. It had been more than twenty years since he'd had an actual, living person to magnetize his uncertainty and longing. He supposed he might have felt like this when he and Lily were still friends—when she was still speaking to him—but he couldn't remember, and somehow he doubted it. As a teenager he'd been more preoccupied with what he _thought_ she wanted, or deserved—impressiveness, greatness, wealth and power. He'd been certain he knew. But he supposed he hadn't. He never had, or he wouldn't have failed so completely.

In the present, he took inventory. He now had physical and emotional anxiety in Lupin's presence, dreams about him, and the desire to deliver him what he wanted. That was a fairly comprehensive circle. And all because Lupin had given him pieces of Lily.

But thinking of it that way demeaned it. It _wasn't_ entirely because Lupin had given him those things, valued beyond expression. It was the measure of kindness with astonishing depth, far beyond the regular hallmarks of consideration that Lupin extended to everyone, even a son of a bitch like Severus himself. Lupin's attempts to connect him with memories of Lily were... personalized. That was not only what no one else could give him, but what no one else _would_.

Severus' heart had always responded to kindness the way other people did to beauty. Kindness moved something inside him; he was unable to turn away from it. He needed to return it somehow—except kindness had never been his strong point. He was more at ease with lying, manipulating, even killing by proxy in order to repay someone's generosity than he was capable of being generous in return. But if he could be certain Lupin meant it as more than part of his overflowing compassion for other people's pain...

It would figure that the second time in his life his heart decided to give itself away without permission, it was to someone who was so warmhearted they would be nice to practically _anyone_. Was it to much to ask that someone would consider his heart because it was his?

It probably was.


	15. Chapter 15

_December 21_

Remus was touched by the house's beauty. He hadn't seen it this clearly last night, when he had only got an impression of many windows. The morning filled it up with sunlight, across walls painted in elaborate frescoes and floors laid with pale marble. Even at the dawn of the darkest day of the year, his bedroom seemed poised for the return of warmth. Of course, he was always outwardly warm; but that chill that had settled in his stomach like a rock seemed confused, now, veined with melting rivulets of wonder.

On the escritoire, his letters to Harry and the Weasleys lay waiting to be sent off. He'd stayed up late after leaving Severus to write to them. He figured they would be very upset with him for leaving in such a crisis, and without any warning. He was probably pushing the limits of what they were willing to accept from him. He tried to employ the methods Severus had suggested: following the borders of truth as much as possible and then playing into his friends' expectations. He told them Andromeda had been so worried about Teddy that she'd insisted they leave, and he thought the best thing he could do would be to go with her—with his son—both for their safety and because he had no other choice. Really, it was perfectly true. He even hinted that they were staying with family, although he was too cautious to say who.

He also, after some deliberation, repeated to them Severus' theory of retribution. If Severus was to be believed, then neither Harry, Hermione, nor any of the Weasleys would be harmed. Severus had given Remus the support of every fact; Remus hoped that answer would leap out at one of his friends the way it had done Severus. Hermione was also highly logical. Remus wasn't, but he understood that to a highly organized mind, facts lined up differently.

And he didn't think Severus was one to overestimate the luxury of certainty.

Speaking of Severus... he hoped his present of the photographs had gone over better than the letter. Well, "better" in the sense of "less painfully." Severus had clearly _appreciated_ the letter, but it was probably in the manner that a patient appreciated a wound being lanced.

Teddy woke up in short order, but a quick peek into her chambers showed that Andromeda was still sleeping. After Teddy almost demolished a vase that was probably worth more than Remus' life, Remus decided it was time to see if there were any less booby-trapped rooms available.

"Let's go outside," Remus said, smiling as he swung his son into his arms. He forbore to tickle Teddy's fox ears, not wanting the corridors to ring with his shrieks. "Shall we see about breakfast?"

"Eccksploor!" Teddy declared, wriggling for Remus to set him down.

Remus looked around and winced. The house was magnificent, but every single thing in it looked as breakable as it did irreplaceable. Visions of shattering heirlooms filled his head.

"Let's go out here." He waltzed Teddy out onto a balcony that faced directly into the morning sunlight. It was beyond broad; massive, with a working fountain set into the middle, and sheltered by the arched stonework that encircled it. This was a decent foresight, since the balcony hung out over the cliff's edge and a strong breeze was billowing over the water. Remus wrapped a Cushioning Charm around the balustrade, but Teddy was currently preoccupied with trying to climb in the fountain.

Remus was holding tight onto Teddy at the railing, counting the boats speckling the sea far below, when he became aware that they weren't alone. He felt a slightly unpleasant prickle of surprise when he saw Narcissa Malfoy standing next to the fountain, watching them.

He remembered Severus bargaining for her courtesy last night. The unpleasant prickle was replaced by a light rush of warmth.

"Good morning, Mrs. Malfoy," he said politely. He had always considered himself lucky in he found it easy to be civil around extremely rude people, as if their rudeness made him feel more human. It was a proclivity that was sure to stand him in good stead at the Malfoys', especially when he encountered the men in the family. Severus had only bartered for _Narcissa's_ civility.

"Mr. Lupin," Narcissa said, with a sort of negligent grace. Remus would bet she was one of those very rare people who could forge rudeness into exacting courtesy, without losing any of the sting. "I hope you slept well."

She moved forward as she said it, drawing closer to the balustrade. Teddy turned around as she spoke, his fox ears returning and pricking up, going white with curiosity. Narcissa blinked—and then of all things, she smiled. It was very faint, almost like a shadow, but it seemed perfectly genuine.

"Excellently, thank you. This is Teddy," Remus said. He figured she'd come out there to see her great-nephew in any case since, if Severus and her own letters were to be believed, Teddy was who she was interested in. "Teddy," he said, jostling his son gently to get his attention, "this is—"

"Auntie Cissa," she murmured, surprising Remus so much that if it weren't for the Cushioning Charm, he would have fallen off the balcony. To complete the circle of his astonishment, she _knelt_ next to the balustrade, putting herself one level below Teddy, and gave him another of those shadow smiles.

"Aren't you handsome," she said to Teddy, who decided to be appropriately bashful and hide his face in Remus' arm. But he gave himself an arctic fox tail to match his ears, which was tantamount to soliciting more compliments, and turned his hair the same shade of glistening blond as her own. She actually laughed—a soft laugh, as barely-there as her smile, but Remus could sense her enjoyment. It was all extremely bizarre. His head was spinning. When he heard the balcony doors click and looked up to see Severus—as the Muggle again, but with the dark eyes Remus could almost believe were really his—he was so relieved he could have grabbed Severus by the hands and begged, _Save me, Severus, please._

"Aren't you all charming," said Severus in a way to suggest that he thought being charming was a definite character failing.

"I'm astonished you even know what that means," Narcissa replied tranquilly. She had progressed to tickling Teddy's fox feet, which, to Remus' consternation, he seemed to enjoy, judging by his squeals.

"I think family gatherings on the balcony of your enormous mansion qualify in any case," Severus said as he joined them at the balustrade, although he kept himself somewhat apart, just out of arm's reach.

Remus decided to stay out of their friendly banter; the idea of Narcissa and Severus ribbing one another made him feel as off-kilter as Narcissa's being sweet to his son.

"Good morning, Se—er," he said, looking down at Teddy, who was engrossed in turning his eyes the same shade as Narcissa's. Unless Remus was very far off his mark, this delighted her. "I probably shouldn't call you—you know—in front of him, should I?"

"He already saw me," Severus said, shrugging slightly.

"Does this mean Andromeda is the only one who doesn't know?" Narcissa asked as she stood, only to sit on Teddy's other side on the balustrade with the evident intention of coaxing him to sit in her lap.

"Of the people in this house, yes. If you mean more broadly in public terms, then Lupin is the only one who _does_ know."

"No wonder then," Narcissa murmured. Remus had no idea what she meant, but he was more preoccupied with the way Teddy was playing coy at her attempts to bring him closer. She seemed pleased by his behavior, rather than put off.

"Shall we go into breakfast, then?" she asked. "I'd like to talk with you about Draco... Ebenezer."

"Fine," Severus said, with another pointed glare at Remus, who tried to appear innocent. It was too bad he couldn't turn his hair angelic colors the way Teddy could.

Teddy didn't let Narcissa carry him to breakfast, but it was clear that he was only testing how far her interest could be stretched. Narcissa kept smiling at him, in her way. When they sat down to table, she requested to Teddy: "Will you sit by me?" and with a show of thinking it over, he did, playing at being aloof.

"You had better watch out," Severus said to Remus from across the table. As ever, when Remus looked back at him after a separation of some moments, he was startled not to see Severus, but this bland stranger wearing Severus' expressions. "If you don't want Narcissa to spirit your child away."

"Well, how could I do it now, after you've voiced my intentions?" Narcissa murmured.

"I suppose now you'll simply have to work on fixing Draco."

Narcissa sighed. "Kidnapping and starting all over might be easier."

Remus decided to focus on feeding Teddy and let Severus and Narcissa have their conversation. Trying to feed an almost-twenty-month-old was work enough.

"I don't suppose he's at home," Severus said.

"No, he spent the night out." Narcissa's expression was definitely sardonic. "Were you thinking of talking to him today?"

"The sooner the better."

"I can give you a list of his haunts."

"Oh Lord," Severus muttered. "A tour of European whorehouses."

"You mean you weren't joking about the loose women?" Remus said without thinking. Narcissa's stare was flaked with unfriendly frost. Oops.

"I told you, Lupin," said Severus, looking at him, "I don't make jokes."

There was something in the bones around his eyes and the fainter lines around the stranger's mouth that made Remus think Severus was almost smiling. Then he frowned to himself; Severus was still going to persist in calling him "Lupin," then. It was disappointing, but not unexpected, really.

Severus and Narcissa spent breakfast drawing up a game plan for finding Draco, which seemed to involve Severus trawling around Southern Europe trying to chase him out of hiding. Remus wondered if Severus would have done this in any case, because it seemed like rather a lot for him to undertake just to keep Narcissa from inflicting pure-blood bigotry on Remus.

When Andromeda came in perhaps forty-five minutes into breakfast, still looking tired, Narcissa actually stood up from the table to greet her. "You're unwell. You should be resting, Andromeda."

"I'll be all right," Andromeda said wearily. "I just caught a little something on the train, that's all."

Remus stood, too. "Have my seat," he offered, sliding it out for her. "I was just finished, and Teddy's mostly done."

"Thank you." Andromeda sat and gave Teddy a kiss hello. Remus was distracted by Severus' slipping silently out of the room. He made his excuses to Andromeda and her sister and hastened after him.

He started to call Severus' name, but then remembered they were _supposed_ to be discreet. "Er—um."

Severus turned, giving him a look that was partly ironic and partly something else. "I'm moved by your eloquence."

"You're standing still," Remus pointed out.

"Just so."

"I know you pride yourself on your proficiency with lies," Remus said sternly, "but you're not doing very well lately. You keep insisting you never make jokes, and yet they're dropping right and left."

Severus hitched his shoulders in a slight shrug and folded his arms. "Did you need something?"

"Can I come with you? To find Draco. I mean, if you want company. I mean, it seemed like you were doing it partly so that, you know, she wouldn't be..." He glanced around the hall, making sure that neither Narcissa nor her house-elf was lurking nearby.

"I could have made that offer because I was looking into Draco anyway," Severus observed, and then for some reason looked cross.

Remus smiled in spite of himself. That was pure Severus. "Oh good. I would've felt really dreadful if you were putting yourself out for me, you know, but if you were just being manipulative, then there's no trouble. Can I still tag along? I feel like I need to be doing something. Particularly now."

"I don't mind the company," Severus said stiffly, his arms rigid across his chest. Remus tried to smile at him reassuringly, but that only seemed to result in expressionlessness cracking across Severus like stone. Remus wondered if it would ever be possible to link Severus' reactions to their causes along logical pathways. Compared to the fathoms of Severus' consciousness, the potions mystery seemed as easily solvable as a riddle on a bubblegum wrapper.

* * *

 

They Apparated back to Marseille, to a point close on the water. The sky was so blue it nearly hurt. With the cobalt glint of the bay, the city seemed trapped between two expanses of heavenly blue. The wind was rather nippy but mitigated by the sunlight, and werewolf metabolism meant that in mild winters like this, Remus was only ever slightly chilly.

It was only too bad that Severus was still forced to look like that Muggle. It was always a bit disconcerting, listening to Severus' soft voice, hearing the familiar inflections, and then looking up and seeing not Severus' lines or distinctive, almost imperious nose, but the bland good looks of this Muggle. Still, there was always enough Severus-ness apparent in him that Remus didn't feel like he was walking with just a stranger.

At the moment, Severus was looking out over the bay peppered with boats, squinting slightly in the wind and the glow of the sunlight. Remus wondered if he wore a cap to keep his head warm, or to keep the stranger's curls out of his face.

"Do you always stay looking like that Muggle when you go out?" Remus asked.

Severus' eyes cut toward him and then back to the bay. "It seems prudent."

"It doesn't get... I don't know... a little wearing, always looking like someone else?"

"Not if you look like me," Severus muttered.

"I like the way you look," Remus objected.

Severus glared at him. "Don't insult me."

"I'm not," Remus said sincerely, wondering how intimidating that glare would be in Severus' face. "You're... interesting."

Severus snorted. _"Interesting._ There's an aspiration."

"Well, I look quite boring," Remus said, smiling.

Severus didn't answer right away, which was tantamount to agreeing. Remus found this amusing. He followed Severus' leave and looking out across the bay. He was about to comment on how beautiful it was here when Severus spoke again.

"Yourfaceisveryexpressive," he muttered, like this was the last thing on God's green Earth he wanted to be discussing.

Remus blinked. "Pardon?"

"It's expressive. That's what gives it... interest."

"See," Remus smiled. "You just called _me_ interesting. Is it a compliment, or isn't it?"

"You apparently think it's a compliment, so you shouldn't mind my saying it."

"I don't," Remus said cheerfully. "But why do you?"

Severus gave him a very impressive glare. " _I_ am ugly."

Remus frowned. "No you're not."

"Lupin, I've looked in a mirror at least once in the past forty years, I think I fucking know what I look like."

"Well, I think ugliness, like beauty—or even interest—is relative. And I think people throw them around as they like because they imagine beauty is a marker of grace and ugliness dishonorable."

"Lupin—" Severus started angrily.

"You won't call me 'Remus'?"

Severus looked startled, but he recovered. "That is not the topic under discussion."

"Well, I don't think you're ugly. You're not going to convince me otherwise, so unless you're going to swing over to my side, we might as well agree to disagree."

"I hate that stupid fucking phrase," Severus muttered.

"Fair enough," Remus said blithely. "Shall we pick a different topic to discuss? Or quarrel over. Whichever you like."

Severus wasn't looking at him, but out over the water, his shoulders slightly hunched in, his head tilted at an angle that Remus suspected would have made his hair swing across his face if it were still long and black and not curly.

"It is a relief being someone else," he said at last, his voice so quiet that Remus could barely hear it over the wind, and had to lean in. This made Severus hunch more, so he pulled back slightly, not wanting to make him uncomfortable.

"But you want to walk about as yourself sometimes, don't you?" he asked.

Severus shrugged again, the motion tight with his shoulders still hunched. "That would imply I wanted to be myself."

Remus blinked. "Severus—"

"Here's the first fucking whorehouse," Severus said abruptly. He crossed the causeway in a motion that Remus would have called 'scuttling' had it been anyone else doing it. When Remus joined him at the door, Severus said, just as abruptly, "You wait out here."

"But—"

"I'm not going to get poisoned in a damned brothel. This will be faster if you wait out here. Or down there." He pointed to the end of the row of buildings.

"All right," Remus sighed, and left him. He seemed to be giving Severus the jitters today. Maybe if he talked about the wizards and witches in England dying horribly, Severus would feel more at ease?

Wait— _I'm not going to get poisoned_... did that mean Severus was _expecting_ to be a target? But—the poisoner thought he was dead... or at least, everyone thought he was dead, so how would the poisoner know he wasn't?

And what about the Malfoys? Was _that_ why Severus was really looking for Draco? No... if it was dangerous, surely Severus wouldn't have let him bring Teddy here...

Remus started pacing along the foot of the stone bridge that arched gently over a channel that flowed inland from the bay. The people around him looked carefree and busy. He had been like them that morning, because he had conned himself, in the bright winter sunlight, into believing they had escaped danger. Of course it wouldn't be that easy. He couldn't believe he'd thought it would be that easy.

It felt like ten years had clawed their way across the bridge before Severus turned up, although it was really only about five minutes. He looked cross and disgusted, although that might have been from the flask he was tucking back in his jacket.

"I'll tell you this," Severus muttered as he got within earshot, "I'd take looking like myself more often if I didn't have to keep drinking this fucking swill. What happened?" he asked sharply, his eyes narrowing as he looked into Remus' face.

"Do you think he's going to poison you?" Remus blurted.

Severus didn't even blink. "If he thinks I'm alive, certainly. Lupin, he's targeting people who did _bad_ things during the War. Very few people did worse than I."

"Oh, bollocks," Remus retorted. "You think you were worse than Bellatrix? The Carrows? Greyback? _Voldemort_?"

"All of those people are dead," Severus said flatly. "There's no giving them what they deserve, they're beyond it. Lupin, there are no Marked Death Eaters left for this bastard to target except for myself, Lucius, and Draco. Lucius is catatonic, I am presumed dead, and Draco's got his head up his arse and his hand up some girl's—" He broke off, rubbing his face, as if he were tired.

"Jesus, he'd be an easy target," Remus said, alarmed.

"Which is why we need to find the brainless little bleeder."

"You haven't told Narcissa."

"Of course I fucking haven't."

Remus laid his hand on Severus' arm. He didn't know why; it was just an impulse he must have developed in the past few days whenever Severus seemed upset. Genuinely upset, not just annoyed or infuriated.

"Do you think he'll try to attack the house?" Remus asked quietly.

"I don't think he can. There are wards that even I couldn't break. They're centuries old, probably forged out of spells no longer recorded in their entirety." But he was scowling.

"Did you ever think of how he might be getting it to his victims?"

"No." He sounded disgusted, perhaps with himself; Remus gave his arm a squeeze, making him twitch. "But Draco's only a single being, and like this, he's exposed. He'd only need to pour it in his drink or rub it on his skin or burn it, even. Sometimes just their fumes are dangerous enough."

"So Teddy's safe?"

"Of course he is, I wouldn't have brought him here if I thought otherwise." Severus sounded as if he couldn't decide whether to be insulted or reassuring. Remus smiled at him and gave his arm another gentle squeeze. Severus waited a beat, and then pulled himself away by rigid increments, as if he were trying not to call attention to himself.

"Sorry," Remus said, wondering what was wrong with him, that he couldn't keep his hands to himself. "I'm being invasive, aren't I? I'll stop."

"I don't—" Severus uttered. He breathed audibly twice, and then said, through grit teeth, "The Malfoys' _house_ is safe, which is why I want to get Draco back there."

"They didn't see him back there, then?" Remus asked in a would-be normal voice. He was determined to stop making Severus so uncomfortable. It was really poor payback, after everything Severus had done for him. For everyone.

"No, not in more than a month. He left a bill. It failed to surprise me."

"You didn't pay it, did you?"

"I didn't survive death to settle Draco Malfoy's sex-worker bills."

Remus couldn't help it, he laughed. "I'm building a case against you, you know. On your sense of humor."

"I suppose you'll have it published in the _Quibbler_ , alongside all the other rubbish no one in their right mind would ever believe."

Remus laughed more. Severus gave him a very funny expression, somewhere between a disgruntled glower and a look of pleased surprise. It almost set Remus off again, but he managed to control himself; nothing would ruin the momentary lightness like laughing _at_ Severus.

"Come the bloody hell on," Severus grunted. "Pull yourself together and stop cackling. There's plenty of other brothel tabs for us _not_ to settle."

* * *

 

The feeling of escape that had settled over Remus on the train through France, punctured on the causeway down by the bay, billowed back into place over the course of the day. After canvassing Marseille, they crossed to Aix-en-Provence, and then to Nice, stopping more than occasionally to eat, for Remus' sake. Severus, by contrast, ate about as much as a bird. He would have a cup of coffee and perhaps a pastry, but usually it was just the coffee.

"Would you be so skinny if you ate more, do you think?" Remus asked as he cut into his swordfish, his official "lunch," as it was now noon. He'd eaten a lot of fish that morning, and all of it delicious.

"I eat when I'm hungry," Severus grunted, swirling a spoon around in his bouillabaisse. "All were—" He stopped and cut a glance at the waitress walking by. "All of... you have the same... appetite, I believe?"

"Ravenously hungry all the time? Yes. It's got to do with the metabolism—also why we're permanently overheated. I always figured that was so we could survive outside. This is delicious."

"Good, since we're paying for it."

"Ratatouille?" Remus offered. Severus only shook his head.

They ate in silence for a few moments. Then Remus said, "I know you'll have thought of this, so please don't think I'm trying to insult you, but there's no—" The waitress walked by again. "You know— _our_ way—to track Draco?"

"He's put a scattering spell on himself," Severus muttered. "Any magical tracking will have no effect."

Remus stirred his rice. "Could it be that he's not the one who put it on himself?"

"It's possible," Severus said, with no discernible emotion, "but unlikely. This man doesn't hide what he's doing. If he's made the conquest of such a target as Draco Malfoy, we'll hear about it."

"D'you think we have a good chance of getting to Draco first?"

"To be perfectly honest, I can't say. I have no idea what this man knows of his habits or whereabouts. He has doubtlessly been planning this for some time; his surveillance could be quite comprehensive."

Remus gnawed distractedly on a fishbone. "About how long would you say? Planning it, I mean."

"He needed to create several different potions, determine a method of application—a very controlled method, given that he had specific targets in mind on a very large scale. I would say he may have had it in mind since the War ended. It's likely, too, considering the tenor of his revenge."

"Good Lord," Remus said quietly, his thoughts tingling with the magnitude of this idea. "That long in the making... Severus, what if he's got something _worse_ planned?"

Severus' gaze seemed to bore into him. "Worse."

"That's close to two years of planning, and, well... this is all horrific, certainly, and sickening, but... most of the Marked Death Eaters have been executed, like you said, and since the people who did the worst in the War are all dead and gone, it seems like his... finale is sort of anticlimactic."

Severus said nothing. But he did look away, and Remus almost swallowed his fishbone.

"Do you think he's going to use Draco for that?" Remus said slowly.

"The possibility had occurred to me. But I am not so sure that... You don't do something like this, Lupin, without some great fueling of hatred, but the targets he's chosen and the methods he's employed indicate some twisted set of principles. He had few child targets, and none of those were seriously injured. The majority of his victims were only disfigured in a way that will be reversible, given time and study. Even the immolation was instantaneous, which suggests he wished for suffering to be, relatively speaking, minimal. Have you not figured out how he's choosing what punishment to inflict?"

"How would I know?" Remus said blankly.

"Haven't you read Dante? The Inferno. He's played fast and loose with some of the punishments—it was fortune-tellers who had their heads twisted backward, for predicting the future—I suspect he's using it, and the blindness, to suggest they reflect on their own lives—but sinners who sowed discord in life were encased in fire, corrupt politicians had oil dripping from their pores. Umbridge, the Dents and all the rest who immolated, they were all responsible for either passing or upholding laws that divided citizens amongst each other. Every victim of the tarring was a politician, and you tell me if you didn't think they were most likely all corrupt."

"Good God," Remus said, his mind reeling. "That's so..."

"Sick?"

"Honestly, I was going to say creative." Remus felt indescribably sad. "This poor man, whoever he is. To have a mind like this, and to have turned it into... well... into _this_."

"I would guess the War left him with nothing to believe in," Severus muttered, looking out the window, where the sunlight glowed in pools on the street. "Not from men, at any rate."

Remus was not at all sure he should ask this, but a part of him wanted to know that deeply. "Do you know how he feels?" he asked. It came out gently.

"If I ever had any belief in mankind—any hopes for its decency, that is—it was burned away a very long time ago. This is the disillusionment of a very young man. One who probably believed with all his... _passion_ in something good, until the War." His forehead creased. "I don't have any idea who it could be, though," he said, obviously bothered by this fact.

"When we were teenagers, if someone had said 'There's a violent werewolf in your class,' would you ever have believed it was me? Without proof."

"No," Severus said, giving him a funny look.

"What I mean is, things aren't always visible, even all-consuming things. He might even have needed all his... hatred to fuel his genius in this regard. Inspiration comes from many different places," he said, feeling sad again.

"That," Severus said quietly, "is certainly true."


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Head's Up: More of the God/forgiveness/faith stuff in discussion. Again, it's not a sermon, it's just various characters talking about it, representing their viewpoints.
> 
> Also, Pottermore jossed my backstory of Remus' parents. Oh well!

_December 22_

Dusk was settling on the horizon after a long and unfruitful day in Italy. Remus hadn't know there were that many brothels, hotels and gentlemen's clubs that catered to wizards anywhere, let alone in a radius of a few hundred kilometers along the Mediterranean. He wished there _weren't_ so many. He was worn down from schlepping through them all. He did his best to conceal this from Severus, though, who had been looking run to the end of a short fuse from the minute they'd stepped out that morning.

Remus was probably being ungrateful, too. Excusing themselves from paying unsettled bills was a picnic after the past week in England. Severus had started telling the madams and managers that Draco owed them money, too, and they'd come to collect. Even Polyjuiced, Severus had a way of exuding menace.

"Hear that?" Remus asked him.

"I hear a lot of things, Lupin. This is a busy street."

"The music," Remus said, smiling. "Choir music." He spotted the church a ways up the street, with people trickling in and out, its steeple stretching into the fading sky. "Let's go inside, shall we?"

"What if I say 'no way in Hell'?" Severus muttered, but followed him anyway.

"Then I'd say you were making another joke."

The church's interior was patched with both light and dark, lit, as it was, only by candlelight. The altar up front was the brightest point in the vaulted room, glowing with hundreds of little white votive candles. The walls had been painted with elaborate frescoes of middling competence, but their colors suggested brightness even in the shadows. Remus chose a pew toward the back, though not the very last row, since that sat in the path of the cold air that wafted from the opening and shutting doors.

The pews were littered with visitors, but not crowded, and Remus' spot was far enough away from nearby church-goers that he and Severus shouldn't be overheard. He let the voices of the choir wash over him for a few minutes in silence, wondering what Severus thought of it all. Remus had always found something fascinating in Christianity, even though he could never quite find the faith to believe in it.

"Did you ever go to church, as a boy?" he asked, pitching his voice low so as not to disturb the people around them.

"No. Pure-bloods aren't generally religious, and my father wasn't that sort of Muggle."

"Mm, my mother neither. She was a doctor—a scientist. She didn't believe in what she couldn't see."

"That didn't make living with magic difficult?" Severus asked, as though he couldn't quite believe it.

"Well, when my father first told her, she _did_ run away. For about three weeks. Then she came back. She said she already put up with his terrible artistic talent and even worse snoring, she might as well accept his throwing the natural order of physics out the window."

"Your father was an artist," Severus said flatly.

"Oh, yes. Absolutely dreadful, never sold a thing. My mother drew a line down the center of the house and told him what rooms he could put his art in and what rooms he couldn't. Strangely, the rooms she used the most were on the banned list." He looked up at the frescoes. "He was a sculptor, though, not a painter."

Severus followed the direction of his gaze. "No sculptures of religious devotion, though."

"Oh, no. Like most wizards, he only had the vaguest idea of Christianity."

"I understand a great deal of it is about retribution," Severus said, his voice almost cold. "The fires of burning hell."

Remus wasn't surprised that was what Severus had fixated on. "Only for those who deserve it. Supposedly those who repent are shown mercy. Supposedly."

Severus did not speak for a while. Then he said, "I have lived all my adult life in penance."

"Then perhaps you're almost done."

"As I understand it, it is the quality of the penance that matters, not the amount."

"In that case, Severus, I think you're overqualified. Everything you did for us in the War? I think you've repaid any score a hundredfold."

Severus' voice was harsh. "You think so? Somehow I don't." He breathed out audibly, one long, whistling breath. Remus thought he heard the unspoken confession, _I can never forgive myself._

"What if others forgive you?" he asked slowly.

"Do you?" Severus looked at him, making Remus wish all over again that he wasn't talking to this stranger's face. The regret pierced him, in fact.

Severus inhaled sharply, and Remus blinked at him in alarm. But Severus appeared almost—angry. Grieved.

"What?" Remus whispered.

"You don't forgive me."

Remus' heart ached and raced together. "Of course I do, Severus. I forgive you all of it."

"How can you?" Severus' whisper bit at the air between them. "I murdered them. I orphaned their child, I left him to grow up in misery. You _forgive_ me for that?"

"I was under the impression it was a man called Voldemort who did all that."

"I was the one who _told_ him—"

"And you also told Dumbledore."

"That doesn't make up for what I—"

"It might not _undo_ it, Severus. Nothing can undo what's been done. But we _can_ make up for... the things we regret. We're always doing that. We do one thing to make up for another. That's all we can do, really."

Severus stared across the chapel, maybe at the candles lit in prayer, or at the Crucifix. That was, perhaps, the ultimate example of doing one thing to make up for another: Christ dying to make up for the sins of man.

"So it has to be enough?" Severus asked, quieter than usual. Bitter.

"We make it enough." Remus realized that at some point he had taken Severus' hand and laced their fingers together. Severus said nothing to acknowledge it, but he didn't pull away, either. That was surprising in itself.

"Do you want to light a candle?" Remus asked, half joking but half not.

"I told you. I don't even believe in all this."

"You believe in penance."

"That's balance. It's the core of magic."

Dark magic, especially. There were some people who believed Dark magic was simply the oldest magic, forged when sorcerers were not afraid of paying a hard price for its worth. But Dark magic was not concerned with intent, only with what was taken and could be given in return. There were people who insisted that Dark magic was not evil, it was only just.

The word "justice" had always rung ominously in Remus' ears. It felt... unforgiving. Probably because it was: justice was not about forgiveness; it was about payback. You owed, and you paid up.

He found his eyes drawn again to the Crucifix. Wasn't the principle of divine forgiveness about mercy, not justice? Wasn't Hell set up for the punishment of those who had done wrong without feeling a drop of remorse? If Severus was right, that's what the poisoner was doing: imposing a measure of Hell on those who lived without guilt. But if you had done wrong and regretted it, supposedly you traveled through Purgatory, repenting until you cleansed your soul of its wrongdoing and its guilt, and ascended to Heaven. There was said to be no sin great enough that true remorse and grace could not, in time, wash it away.

Some people might believe that some transgressions could not be forgiven or made up for. Severus certainly seemed to be one of them. He was unable to forgive _himself_. How could Remus convince him he had punished himself enough, had suffered long enough for mistakes that wouldn't have kept from an hour's sleep someone whose soul was truly worthy of contempt?

"Come on," Remus said, tugging lightly on Severus' hand. "Come with me to light a candle."

Severus rose reluctantly from the pew. At the altar, Remus took one of the long matches to add to the glow of hundreds of white candles, but he didn't light it right away. Standing in the patchy darkness of the church, something one of his grammar school teachers had once told him had suddenly wafted back to him: that the Christmas holiday was about miracles. He had taken this news home, only to meet with the gentle skepticism of his wizard father and scientist mother. "That's what they believe, I s'pose," his dad had said to him. "All that 'son of God' stuff. But they really took the holiday because of the Solstice—what the witches and wizards were already celebrating. Forced conversion, you know."

"You don't see the stars those kings supposedly followed in the winter, anyway," his mother had said. "It's all made up, really—like a fairy tale."

Perhaps it was, Remus thought. Perhaps all of it, even the idea of divine punishment and mercy, was nothing more than an enticing story for those who wished to live in a world of equity. But Severus was right: balance lay at the core of nature. Balance was what the eyes could see, what science could measure. Dark magic exacted a just price. But Light magic was like mercy: it simply gave, asking for nothing in return.

It was like love, too, in that respect, and love was supposed to lie at God's core. Christ had died out of love for sinners, and this was the season to honor his birth. It didn't matter _when_ he had been born, or even _if_ he had, not to Remus. What mattered, to him at least, was that one could believe love's potential was so powerful, it could transform evil from dross into gold.

He glanced up at Severus and met his eyes, almost as if he were sinking into them—as he had always imagined Leglimency must feel, like a smooth, clean dive into deep, dark water—and a whole row of candles flared to light in front of him.

Severus grabbed his wrist, the one holding his match—which was still unlit. "Lupin," he hissed.

"Sorry," Remus whispered contritely, his whole body thrumming with an energy that seemed to radiate from the point where Severus' fingers were wrapped around his wrist.

He and Severus edged away from the altar, which was now buzzing with excited whispers.

"I should've known you couldn't take a Gryffindor out in public," Severus muttered as they slipped down the aisle.

Remus smiled to himself. The blood in his veins felt like it was tingling as it traveled from his heart out to his extremities, flowing more swiftly than usual, making his skin even warmer than he was used to. How... simple he'd been. He had thought, had seriously thought, that the flow of his thoughts and compassion toward Severus had been only selfless interest.

_Well, I've already proved—several times these past two weeks—that I'm an utter idiot._

He pushed open the doors at the back of the chapel, leading them out into the night and the chill of December. It felt refreshing, though, just as the warmth had felt radiating from the altar with its hundreds of candles. He breathed inthe cold night air.

"Let me guess," Severus said. "You're hungry."

Remus laughed outright. "What if I said I'm full of thoughts?"

"I would say I wouldn't have thought your head was normally so empty that you needed to eat three separate entrees to make up for it."

Remus laughed again. It _was_ funny, but he wasn't laughing entirely at the joke. He wasn't even laughing wholly at himself, or even at the ludicrousness of the situation he'd got himself into; he was laughing, in part, at the happiness of it. It had been so long since he had felt anything like this. Since Dora had died—since the War had ended—he'd thought he never would again.

Perhaps part of the reason early Christians had given Christmas to the darkest part of the winter was to remind mankind about hope.

* * *

 

They bought snacks off a street vendor who had stayed open right outside the church with the opportunistic view of tempting churchgoers.

"I don't suppose Draco has any friends?" Remus asked, eating a whole grease-laden sandwich in two bites. Religious introspection made him hungry, apparently.

Severus actually stopped with his sandwich halfway to his mouth. Remus looked up at him in surprise and saw that his jaw was tight, his eyes snapping with fury.

"What?" he asked, alarmed.

" _Friends_ ," Severus hissed. "I am such a fucking _idiot."_

"If you're an idiot, what does that make me?"

"Come on," Severus said curtly, shoving his dinner back into its wrapper and jamming it into his coat pocket. "We need to go back. Narcissa will know where the pure-bloods winter."

Remus turned to follow him, and then stopped, staring in surprise at something down the street. Some _one_ —but that couldn't be—

"What?" Severus asked sharply.

"No... it's nothing," Remus said abstractly. It was the truth; the street was empty of familiar faces, even of those that seemed familiar but were only illusions. He smiled at Severus apologetically and shrugged; Severus only kept peering down the street, his eyes narrowed. "Shall we?"

* * *

 

He and Lupin found Narcissa in the sitting-room that adjoined the chambers she had allotted Lupin and her sister, with Lupin's son asleep on her lap. She didn't seem inclined to move him, even though Severus figured her arm had to have fallen asleep.

"Friends?" she repeated quietly, in response to Severus' question.

"Pure-bloods in the area he might have gone to. Or out of the area, even. Ones who got out of the country at the end of the War."

In the soft light from the lamps, he could see her thinking it over. She turned her eyes toward Lupin and said, "Would you take Teddy? Severus and I need to talk about a few things."

Severus admired the complete appearance of mannered tranquility she presented: she hated the boy's name only a little less than she despised socially prominent half-breeds.

"Of course," Lupin said, matching her feigned courtesy. Anyone who hadn't known better would have thought they were happy acquaintances instead of two people who were only in each other's company because the alternative was boiling in oil or immolation.

Lupin lifted his son from her arms with such practiced ease the boy didn't even mumble in his sleep. With his child in his arms, the familiar tenderness settled over Lupin's face, a sort of prismatic fragility of love and longing, with fierceness at its core. It was mesmerizing. Severus was glad, in that moment, that Occlumency had eroded his ability to express the full range of emotions, because he didn't want Lupin seeing how pathetic he was. Even the sight of Lupin holding his _child_ made him feel like some fucking romantic cliché, swooning all over the damned place.

"Come find me when you're done?" Lupin whispered.

He managed to nod, and Lupin, the bastard, gave him one of those little smiles, the ones that made him feel even more romantically cliché, with weak fucking knees and swooping stomachs.

Severus looked at Narcissa, which he realized was an immediate mistake, because she was staring at him as though he was a bit of bread mold that had suddenly stood up and recited the opening overture of the HMS Pinafore.

"Severus," she asked, "are you feeling all right?"

Well, they may have been friends for two decades, and he may have hexed her husband's balls to shrivel because she asked him to and lied to Lucius' face about her drawing master and her dancing instructor and the Baron, but he wasn't about to tell her about pining for Lupin because he was so _nice_.

"I'm simply tired from beating the roads of Italy looking for your scapegrace of a son."

"I imagine so." Then she bloody _glanced in the direction Lupin had gone_. "So you've exhausted all the lower-class establishments he might be hiding in and are moving on to the upper?"

Thank Salazar for Slytherin discretion, at least. "More or less. The only presence he left in any of the places we canvassed was a sheaf of bills. It makes sense that he's not gone to any of the clubs or whorehouses, now that we know they'd dun him the second he set foot in the door. It stands to reason he'd have gone somewhere with free room and board and, I imagine, hopeful mothers ingratiating themselves. I assume he's still a viable prospect as a son-in-law?"

"Since we've retained the fortune, yes." Severus knew she'd badgered Lucius into securing his funds in foreign banks when the Dark Lord had returned to power. Narcissa didn't leave anything up to chance. "We are no longer politically viable, but I can think of quite a few mamas who wouldn't think of that except to drive up the bride price."

"Can you think of anyone Draco would have gone to of his own accord, or because he was invited?"

"There are the Parkinsons," she said slowly. "The eldest daughter was always very keen on him, though I told him ages ago it couldn't be a permanent option. He did like having her attention, though. They have a hunting lodge in Austria—but the mother isn't likely to encourage him, she's always despised me and they have fortune enough."

"Then he's not likely to be there unless the mother isn't. I'll save it in the event more probable options produce as few results as I've bloody well seen so far."

"Severus," Narcissa said, her voice suddenly tense in the quiet, "you don't think... you don't suppose this... _bastard_ has him, do you?"

"No." Severus was still as sure of this as he'd been yesterday when Lupin had asked him. "We would have heard about it, if he had. Just as you'd have heard if Draco had been taken somewhere against his will. No one would have any cause to abduct Draco in silence. If he's being held for revenge or ransom, we will know. He's left a trail of debts behind him, which suggests that he's gone to ground from motives of... prudence."

"But you're tense."

 _Because I haven't ruled out who might yet be after him._ "If Draco's in hiding, it's because he believes someone is after him. I intend to get there first. Even if I have to slit throats to do it. You have my word, Narcissa."

"I know." She laid her hand over his, the dry skin of her palm cool across his knuckles. "It is the only reason I've been sleeping at night. Not to mention how I can bear being civil to your werewolf during the day."

Severus managed to avoid a full-body start, but his hand, the treacherous thing, twitched underneath Narcissa's, and he saw her smile in the shadows from the lamplight.

"He's not _my werewolf_ —" he started, pouring all the contempt he could into his voice.

"No?" Narcissa asked, with credibly innocent surprise for someone who had never been innocent and was only surprised about once every ten years. "You could have fooled me."

He struggled to frame a reply to this that would appropriately convey his scorn and incredulity.

She went on thoughtfully, "But then, you always were a _highly_ accomplished actor. At times, I've believed you even managed to fool yourself. I'm not sure whether that's an accomplishment or a liability."

Then she pressed his hand and left the room, the skirts of her mourning robes susurrating into the silence, leaving Severus feel as if she had opened him up like a gourd and scooped his insides clean.

If Narcissa had already figured it out, how long before Lupin came to the same conclusion?

 _Lupin doesn't know you as well as Narcissa_ , his Inner Ravenclaw pointed out logically. _In fact, he hardly knows you at all. He hasn't even been one of your worst enemies all these years._

That was true, even if Lupin knew (and had guessed) things about him that he'd never told anyone in all his life. Narcissa knew how to read Severus' _expressions_ when he had them. He thought he'd been Occluding—he was always Occluding—but if Narcissa had detected the imprint of emotion on his face, that meant his Occlumency shields had failed. They only stopped working when his emotions became too strong for them to hold... which would suggest the strength of his emotion when he'd looked at Lupin five minutes ago had been powerful enough to buckle his shields, even if only for a moment.

"Shit," Severus muttered, pressing a hand against his forehead. But in fact, there wasn't profanity expressive enough for this revelation. Perhaps he ought to do a spell, to really express himself. To get the it just right, though, he'd have to transfigure the whole of the Malfoys' house from marble to oak.

* * *

 

Remus settled Teddy in his bed and then sat at the escritoire, which was stocked with truly beautiful stationery (cream-colored parchment edged with gold leaf), and sketched absently on a sheet of letter paper. In a moment of petty vindictiveness, he considered drawing something on every single sheet of parchment, just to force Narcissa to replace the whole. Of course, with her financial resources, his little act of malice would probably have the same effect on her assets as losing 50p would to his. He sighed.

"Whatever happened to that generous Christmas spirit?" he muttered. "Does it find it hard to survive in the Malfoy marble palace, with three remorseless millionaires?"

That wasn't entirely fair, because Narcissa did feel some remorse where her sister was concerned. But did Lucius feel anything? Severus said he was very ill. Remus couldn't help the uncharitable thought that he deserved it. And as for Draco, wracking up call-girl bills wasn't exactly an appropriate measure of repentance in Remus' view.

He wondered if he would be trying to find Draco if doing so hadn't involved helping Severus, and was forced to answer "probably not." Even when he reminded himself that whatever Draco Malfoy was, he didn't deserve magical immolation or worse, he was still glad that Severus was there to spur the helping on, and not just because it was Severus. There would be no sainthood applications from him, then.

He banished Draco ruefully from his mind. He'd rather think about Severus, even if that made him feel even more rueful. It would figure. He had always been attracted to cases that seemed romantically hopeless. First Sirius, who was beautiful and wild and wildly sought-after; then Dora, who was thirteen years younger; and now Severus, who was prickly and had been, at one point or another, the mortal enemy of nearly everyone Remus had ever cared about, and who carried a torch for Lily that was unlikely ever to burn out. To make matters even more hopeless, if Severus couldn't forgive _himself_ , then Remus was under no illusions that Severus had ever learned to forgive anyone else, and there were several tombs of guilt and hatred built on the landscape of their past.

He thought he'd given Severus the letter and the photographs because he could and because Severus needed them, but he understood now that the truth was much more intricate. But, shorn of all extraneous details, the truth was that he'd wanted to make Severus happy. To anyone else, the result he'd got would have indicated a backfire of epic proportions, but Remus wondered if Severus knew happiness the way other people did, with smiles and laughter. It seemed more likely that he only understood joy through the prism of a broken heart. The thought sent an ache through Remus' soul.

And that recurring impulse to touch him, to see his real face, not that Polyjuiced stranger's... he remembered insisting to Severus that his face was interesting, and laughed at himself. He'd always been thick when it came to his own affections. He'd called Sirius a fathead when he'd asked Remus why he kept flirting with Dora, and it had been a whole other week before he realized Sirius was right. He'd mooned over Sirius for three _years_ before he understood what he was doing. In fact, considering his track record, it was really an accomplishment for him to discern inside of a week, with no outside help, that he was feeling romantic about Severus. Except that it felt as if the attraction, at least, had been percolating for a while...

And then, of course, there was Teddy. His reservations on that score were less easily defined. It wasn't that he didn't trust Severus or that he thought he'd influence Teddy negatively—well, no more than George Weasley would—but something told him that any pursuit of Severus would be a full-time job; and so was fatherhood, even the scaffolding the law barely allowed him to maintain. Hadn't he reminded himself, only a couple of days ago, that having a child meant ceasing to live only for yourself?

He sighed. He was hopeless, the situation was hopeless, and it would take some sort of miracle for it _not_ to be.

"Somehow I don't think this was the Christmas miracle my grade-school teacher had in mind," he said.

There was a tap at the door. He pointed his wand and the hallway door swung open, revealing Severus, who was back to looking like himself, from the stringy hair down to the black robes that blurred him into the shadows. Remus' heart, which had got him into this mess in the first place, picked up its speed, making his skin tingle. He only smiled at Severus, mostly because he was afraid that if he opened his mouth, he'd say something astronomically sappy, like, "I missed the sight of your face," which would probably get Severus throwing a chair at him. At best.

"Any leads?" he asked once he'd gotten his absurd romantical impulses under control. Well, mostly. His heart-pace was still fluttering.

"Narcissa gave me several families to try," Severus said, although he looked as if he didn't thank her for this. "When I find Draco, he'll be lucky if I don't wring his anemic little neck. Running around with a lot of sneering, sodding pure-bloods isn't how I envisioned spending my bloody Christmas."

"What would you have done?" Remus asked curiously. "If you had a choice."

"Cutting up screaming mandrake roots would have been more pleasant. Or shoving bamboo under my fingernails."

Remus' attempt to smother his laughter came out as a snort.

"How are you going to... meet them? I mean, surely you're not going as yourself?"

"Narcissa's given me a ring with the family crest on it, to serve as a pass. It's not unheard of to send proxies in search of family members who are in hiding."

"Less conspicuous?" Remus realized he didn't really know very much about pure-bloods of the class Severus would be dealing with. It was a different world than his.

"Quite," Severus said, as though nothing could be inconspicuous enough. "You needn't come if you don't—"

"You might not be able to see it in this light," Remus said, "but I'm rolling my eyes at you. I'll be ready before the sun comes up."

Severus grunted. He'd been looking a mixture of cross and sullen since coming in the room, and his expression didn't change now.

"Have a good night, then, Lupin," he muttered, and left, his posture slightly hunched, as though he was trying to skulk out the door. Remus didn't bother to resist the thought that it was really rather cute.

Hopeless.


	17. Chapter 17

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When I wrote this fic, Astoria's name was still a bit uncertain; JKR had written "Asteria" but said "Astoria." I picked Asteria, so that's been jossed as well, but her name remains as my original choice.

_December 23_

"Where are we headed now?" Lupin asked as he followed Severus outside to the house's Apparition point. It was built into a mosaic of the sun on a limestone deck that faced over the calanques. The pale herald of dawn already tinted the sky, blending Lupin into an amalgam of shadows.

"Austria. The Parkinsons have a hunting lodge there."

The Blacks had built Apparition points for themselves across Europe, little pockets of access free from the claws of bureaucracy. The wards themselves were designed to boost a wizard's magical field, allowing him to Apparate across great distances without straining himself. Narcissa had given Severus a map of all the points. He showed it now to Lupin.

"We're going to this point in Turin that we used last night," he said, tapping it on the map, "then to Zurich, then to Salzburg, and finally to Salzkammergut, where the lodge is. Or near enough."

"Got it."

Severus tucked the map away and stood in the center of the mosaic sun. Lupin stepped into its circle, too, close enough for Severus to feel the supernatural heat of his body, even through layers of coats. It made him shiver.

They Apparated.

* * *

 

"This is beautiful." Lupin's words formed in the air as nearly insubstantial clouds of ice.

"It's wasted on the Parkinsons, you can be sure of that."

Severus crunched through the snow, ducking to avoid low-hanging branches. There was no path, but he could feel the tingle of the Parkinsons' wards. They crackled across his senses just as sounds of the ice shifting in the trees cracked the deep silence.

"It's like we're the only two people in the world," Lupin said from behind him, in a dreamy sort of way.

Severus glanced over his shoulder and, sure enough, Lupin was gazing around at the snow-laden trees and the clouds that trailed around the mountain slopes across the open expanse of the lake. On the opposite bank sat the town, its roofs thatched with snow, the black spire of its church's steeple piercing the backdrop of white.

It was too bad they _weren't_ the only two people in the world; then Severus might have a better chance of convincing Lupin to do something wild, like remotely fancy him.

"Weren't Pansy and Draco friends at school?" Lupin asked.

"Pansy had her sights set on him, that's for certain."

"He might be here, then?"

"I doubt it, but this should be an easy way to find out if he's with another girl. She'll be jealous, and jealousy makes people easy to manipulate."

The growing surge of magic made him look forward. There it was, the wards of the lodge glinting in the pale expanse of the overcast, early morning sky, rippling as if responding to an invisible wind. He took out his wand and cast a few surreptitious spells at the wards, but could find no Disenchantment Charms. He hoped the Parkinsons had never had the money to put anything undetectable in there.

He led Lupin around to the front gates and touched his wand to the wards. In a few moments, a house-elf appeared on the path, wearing a tatty towel and shivering in the cold.

"Good health to you, sirs," it squeaked, its teeth chattering. "Please to be stating your business, sirs?"

"We are here to speak to Miss Pansy Parkinson," Severus told it, and held the ring down where the elf could see it. "The business is private."

The house-elf would recognize the crest. They were brought up knowing the order of those who claimed to serve as their betters.

"Please to be coming through, sirs," the elf chattered.

The gates swung open, and Severus and Lupin followed the half-frozen elf up the path to the front steps. The lodge was built on stilts and framed with large, open windows, many of them dark early in the morning.

"It's cruel to send them outside without anything to keep them warm," Lupin said in a low voice.

"I don't think there's a way to enslave someone considerately," Severus muttered.

The front steps were massive, carved of pine, and led to doors of impressive woodwork. The house-elf ushered them inside and showed them to a small alcove just off the flagstone vestibule, where a fire was already burning in a magnificent hearth.

There was a wolf's head stuffed and mounted above the fireplace. He darted a look at Lupin, who was wearing a very impressive expression of pitying disdain.

"If sirs are pleased to be waiting here," the house-elf said, so well-trained it didn't step in through the doorway into the warmer room, even though it was still trembling from cold, "Miss Parkinson is to be having her breakfast, but will be with sirs shortly." Then it bowed low and scuttled off.

Lupin had crossed to the window and stood looking out on the snowy landscape. "Do you think they shot that wolf themselves?" he asked conversationally. "Or did they buy it at an estate sale?"

"I think they're a bunch of twats," Severus said.

Lupin smiled broadly at him over his shoulder, making Severus' heart do something like a back-flip off of a high dive. "I'd never argue. It's not a werewolf's head, you know,. I wonder if they know that?"

"I'd doubt it. They're a bunch of _brainless_ twats."

While Lupin was laughing, a tea service winked into being on the table. Finest silver. Fucking pure-bloods and their fucking silver. Of course, they'd never buy china; it was too newfangled. Not to mention _foreign_ , which was even worse.

"Good thing I brought my gloves," Lupin said.

"Give us a moment," Severus grunted, pulling off his own. "What should I transfigure it to?"

"Transfigure it?"

"I choose slag. I can appreciate the symbolism." A couple of spells, and the gleaming silver set turned a distinctly ugly shade of blackish grey, before covering itself with a coating of what looked like silver but was really only polished tin.

"Thank you," Lupin said, "for giving me slag."

"That wasn't the symbolism I intended," Severus muttered.

"I know, I know—I'm teasing you."

Severus wondered why this was pleasing. He despised being teased. Generally.

"Good tea," Lupin said, pouring it. "For slag."

"The insides are now stainless steel." He frowned. "Then you're not poisoned by ingesting foods and liquids that have been exposed to silver?"

Lupin blinked again. "I... don't honestly know. I mean, I've never had a reaction that I was aware of. I don't get invited to that many pure-blood tea parties—most of my friends aren't the sort to own silver sets, whether they serve them to me or not."

"Well, I wouldn't push it," Severus said, accepting the teacup Lupin was offering to him.

"Don't worry," Lupin said, smiling again, "you're the only person I know with access to a silver set."

"Before we left, I chucked it off the balcony into the sea."

Lupin blinked slowly at him. Severus had no idea why, and he never got to find out, because a shrill, pugnacious voice he remembered all too well from six years of classroom exposure hollered: "Grimsy! What is this _half-breed doing_ in my house?"

Pansy fucking Parkinson. Severus could've wrung her neck. Where Lupin got the reserves to give her a complacent little smile, Severus had no idea.

"Good morning, Pansy," Lupin said, quite pleasantly. Narcissa might even have been impressed. "Happy Christmas. You're looking rather well, all things considered."

"Grimsy!" Pansy shouted, and the elf appeared cowering on the rug. "You've let an ANIMAL into my house!"

"But you already have one," Lupin said, gesturing to the wolf's head over the mantle.

Pansy sneered at him. It made her look uglier than usual. "That's the state _animals_ ought to be in."

"I feel sorry for your cat, if that's the case," Lupin said pleasantly still, with another of those mildly sunny smiles. Severus couldn't help a surge of his own admiration. He had never been the sort of person who kept his cool, but he'd never been _able_ to. His fuse was so short, he'd been forced to turn preemptive antagonism into a modus operandi. But Lupin was already approaching Dumbledorian levels of placidity in the face of raging idiocy, and he wasn't yet forty.

"Miss Parkinson," Severus said, drawing her attention. He was pleased to see that despite the decreased timbre of his voice, and even though she had no idea who he really was, he got her full attention with no more effort than the use of her name, as soft and cold as freshly powdered snow.

"Who are _you?"_

"A concerned party." He showed her the ring. Her eyes widened. "We are seeking any information you might have on Draco Malfoy."

Her eyes fixed in that wide, round state. They flicked over his face, then back to the ring. He saw her hesitate, and he knew he'd made the right decision in coming here. She knew where Draco was, or at least thought she did. It wasn't here, or she'd have looked more anxious, but she did know.

Her face hardened as she caught sight of Lupin sitting on her family furniture and munching on a ginger biscuit. "I'll talk to you, but not with _it_ in the room."

"These biscuits are quite delicious," Lupin told her generously. "Thank your cook for me, will you, Pansy? Was it you, Grimsy?" He smiled down at the elf.

"Don't speak to me," Pansy said shrilly. "Grimsy, put it out of the house!"

"Grimsy is so so sorry, miss," the house-elf squeaked in abject misery, trembling all over as if she was standing in three feet of snow. Severus wanted to drop-kick _Pansy_ out the window, the stupid brat.

"I'll take these biscuits off your hands," Lupin said, piling them into his pockets. "After I've touched them with my filthy werewolf paws, it seems like the only considerate thing to do." He said to Severus, "I'll see you outside."

"Grimsy," Pansy hissed to her elf, "you will shut your hands in the oven door for this."

"Yes, miss, thank you, miss," the elf squeaked, bowing about five times in succession, and then disappearing with a crack.

"If you're through tormenting the house with your rendition of the tragic heroine of an unpublished melodrama," Severus said, "you can answer my questions."

She looked offended, which pleased him. As a start.

"I am assuming, from your level of injured theatrics, that Draco Malfoy isn't here."

"'Injured theatrics'?"

"Where has he gone? And don't bother to tell me it's to any of his whores," Severus said with a delicate sneer. "All he's left there is a trail of outstanding bills."

She flushed an ugly color. "You—who are you? You're not of any good family or I'd recognize you. How dare you come into my house, bringing filthy animals and speaking to me this way—"

"Perhaps he's gone to another woman," Severus pursued softly, watching her face. "A real woman, not some bored slag, or a pea-brained princess pitching temper tantrums?"

"How dare you!" she shrieked. And he'd got her: the image of a face floating to his mind, angelically sweet, with melting blue eyes.

"No names spring to mind?" he asked, with sarcastic innocence.

"Get _out_! Get out, get _out_!"

Severus gave her a mocking bow. "Good day to you, Miss Parkinson. I hope you don't lose too much sleep over losing him—but really, you're better off. There's no way two people so hare-brained would ever have made a good match of it."

With that parting shot, he took himself off, leaving her red-faced and bright-eyed with rage and humiliation in the horrible alcove with its drooling wolf's head. Disgusting arseholes.

He stalked out of the wards in a dudgeon, which tattered somewhat when he found that Lupin had used the intervening time to build a snowman. He was sticking coals on its face for eyes as Severus crunched to a stop next to him.

Lupin raised his eyebrows at something he detected in Severus' face; a worrying reaction. He'd really be in trouble if Lupin learned to read his expressions.

"Didn't go that well, I take it?"

"The stupid, flabby-brained girl," he muttered. "No, as a matter of fact it went well enough. I know where she thinks he is."

"But that's good, isn't it?" Lupin asked, confused. "You don't seem happy."

"I shouldn't have taken you in there," Severus said. He felt like a complete idiot, as if Lupin's presence overgrew all his logical pathways. It had literally not occurred to him that Pansy would recognize Lupin from his days as her professor and would act accordingly, like a little shit. It should have occurred to him. It hadn't.

Lupin only smiled at him, although in a way that suggested he was thinking of something else. "You don't need to worry about me," he said, conjuring a handful of little black pebbles, which he pushed into the snowman's face to make a smiling mouth. "There," he said in satisfaction, standing back from it with an almost childish sort of enthusiasm. "How's it look?"

"I suppose it's smiling at the sodding stupid Parkinsons because it has your unfathomable reserves of... whatever you call it," he said, thinking that Lupin in the snow made him feel unbelievably, bizarrely sappy. There were flakes of snow clinging to his silvered hair, and his eyes looked bluer than ever; an absorbing blue, like the sky as it lightened above the tree tops. Severus forced himself to breathe evenly. "Whatever it was that let you smile into that moronic brat's face while she was pitching her shit."

"I just feel sorry for her, really," Lupin said. He put his hand into his pocket and drew out a ginger biscuit. "Want one? They really are quite good. That poor elf must've baked them."

Severus only shook his head and gestured back the way they'd come. Lupin followed, nibbling on the biscuit.

"Sorry for her," Severus repeated, wondering how even Lupin could do that.

"Don't get me wrong," Lupin said ruefully. "I can't stand her and I think she's quite probably a truly horrible person, but... maybe that's why. I feel like her world has to be empty." He smiled, almost self-consciously. "That's horribly arrogant of me, isn't it?"

"Her world probably is empty. But I doubt she realizes it. And if she doesn't realize it, I don't see that it matters."

"But that's when it matters most," Lupin said. "Because if she never knows, then she can never... fill it up with anything."

"She might not be able to fill it in any case." _He_ had never been able to, and his world had to be emptier than Pansy fucking Parkinson's. It was impossible not to live in emptiness when you yearned with all your soul for things that could never be yours.

He felt Lupin's hand drift to settle on his shoulder, infusing warmth through his layers of clothes, down to his skin, which was tingling in the cold. Severus looked away, afraid that even this Muggle's darker skin would be flushing.

"Where are we headed now?" Lupin asked gently.

Severus shook himself. "Switzerland. To the Greengrasses."

* * *

Remus vaguely remembered the Greengrasses from his brief tenure at Hogwarts. There seemed to have been three daughters, each of them two years apart. The older two had been dismissive students, but Minerva had explained that was par for the course with pure-blood girls: the more respectable their family, the sharper their ambitions for a good marriage and a good marriage alone. The youngest girl was the only one whose face he could really remember, because she had been rather bright. And... there was something else...

"The Greengrass girls," Remus said, as he followed Severus down the iced mountain path, trying not to slip in the surging wind. "Would this be Leto, Daphne, and Asteria?"

Severus made a motion with his hand which Remus took as a reminder that Severus wouldn't be heard in all this wind.

"Sorry," Remus called down to him. Severus just flicked his hand at him again, dismissively this time, as if to say, 'Don't bother me with apologizing.'

It was so tempting to look away from the footpath and up into the piercing expanse of the sky. It was patched with thin strips of clouds above the towering height of the mountains, torn to shreds in the high wind that surged like invisible ice over the peak. On an outcropping of rock in front of them—perhaps some two hundred meters away, but looking close enough to touch in that thin, clear air—crouched the cobbled mound of a small castle. Even against the backdrop of all that natural beauty, something about it looked... forlorn.

Remus could picture Asteria clearly, and not the least because she had been at the core of an odd moment of connection between him and Severus, even back then. He remembered Severus sweeping into the staff-room after hours, the lines of his robes and hair melting into the shadows—the way they still did, when the lighting was right—and telling him: "You need to fail Asteria Greengrass a time or two if you don't want her mother to beat her."

Remus had knocked over a stack of essays and a cup of tea without meaning to, because even for pure-bloods that sounded like having too much water in their brains. " _What_?"

"Mrs. Greengrass views academic achievement in her daughters as tantamount to conceited independence," Severus had said coldly. "And independent is the last thing a respectable pure-blood mother wants her daughter wants to be. A 'C' average will be acceptable." Then he'd sneered at Remus' scattered grading and said, "Carry on, _Lupin_ ," and swept out again.

Which reminded him: Severus still wouldn't call him "Remus." He sighed. He knew this shouldn't weigh on his mind because of—well, everything... and yet he couldn't stop looking at the stranger's Polyjuiced curls and wishing they were the fall of Severus' black hair, that the fingers which handled Muggle currency and magical maps were long and almost spidery-thin, with the perfect sort of beauty that belonged to surgeons, pianists, sculptors—not the hopeless sort, like his own dad, but the ones who made living forms surge out of marble. Last night he'd fallen asleep to thoughts of Severus' fingers brushing across his cheekbones, down the side of his neck, over his collarbone...

He slipped on a rock, sending a little volley of pebbles clattering down the patched, snowy earth that sloped steeply down into the clouds. Glancing up, he found that Severus had turned to glare at him viciously.

"Sorry," Remus said, sheepish.

Severus grabbed him by the arm and shoved him in front. When he leaned in to be heard over the wind, Remus had to fight back a shiver. "This gives a new meaning to 'head in the clouds,' Lupin," Severus growled in his ear.

There was no stopping the shiver that time. At least they were on a frigid, icy mountaintop; he could attribute the motion to the wind, at least.

They trickled up the steep, rocky mountain trail toward the Greengrasses' castle, over rocks lightly dusted with snow. The air was so thin up here, it felt like he was breathing nothing at all.

They wended a set of twisting stone steps for perhaps thirty meters and at last staggered into the shelter of a gatehouse, where they were brought up by an iron gate, well-fortified but badly rusted. The gatehouse smelled rank, like mildew, and the courtyard beyond the grille was scattered with dirty snow and patches of filthy-looking ice. If this was a family with money, they'd chosen not to spend it keeping their castle in decent repair.

"Are you sure they're in?" Remus asked, his voice falling like snow into the utter silence of the courtyard.

Severus was badly winded. "They... haven't got two knuts to rub... together." He frowned. "That... did not have the sound I intended it to."

Remus burst out laughing. "Well, if they've got three daughters, they _wouldn't_ have."

"Four, in fact. You could gamble... any amount of gold against Mrs Greengrass' desperation to catch Draco as a husband for one of her daughters and... you'd lose. Unless, perhaps, you're Greengrass himself. I think... he'd lose a wager on the sun's rising tomorrow."

"There are four of them?" Remus asked in surprise. "I can only remember three."

"The youngest was still in the nursery when you were teaching. I need to catch my fucking breath," he muttered. "Fucking high altitudes."

Remus let Severus get his breath back in silence and surveyed the folds of the mountains beyond the open mouth of the gatehouse. In that air, he imagined he could reach out and run his finger along their ridges.

"I wish I could live here," he said wistfully. "Not, you know, in a mildewy castle, but someplace beautiful like this."

"Perhaps you ought to consider moving, then," Severus said, still sounding a bit breathy. That was a nice sound, really, especially in that soft voice of his. How had Remus managed to avoid thinking for so many days how _really_ intimate that voice was? And now with the faltering cadence of exertion, the shortened breath... oh dear, what if Severus could pick up on these thoughts? They felt a little invasive, anyway. Severus surely wouldn't appreciate being thought of—well, _that_ way by Remus, of all bloody people.

What had they been talking about? What was he supposed to be focusing on, instead of Severus' decadent voice? He cast about and found a very normal response that also had the virtue of truth: "I could never leave Teddy."

"I didn't mean you should, Lupin. Talk to your mother-in-law. What's left for her in England, either?" He straightened from the wall, which he'd leant against to rest, and pulled out his wand.

"Once more unto the breach, as Granger says," he said sardonically, and tapped his wand against the iron grille of the gate. A ward rippled to life, glowing a sickly sort of mustard-yellow from the dirty cobblestones to the top of the gatehouse. Severus snorted. "You see? Wards going to rot, too."

"Asteria was the first-year when I taught, wasn't she?" Remus asked. "The one you asked me to grade more harshly?"

"Yes," Severus said, his eyebrows drawing together in a dark look.

"I think that was one of the most horrible things I'd ever hear. When you told me she'd cried because I'd been marking her assignments too high. And not the least because I'd made such a sweet child cry."

"Her mother isn't fit to raise a cactus plant," Severus said with harsh disgust, but then he made a sharp quieting motion with his hand. A moment later, Remus heard it too: the sound of someone's feet pattering over a light snowfall. Through the bars of the gate he saw a young woman coming toward them, with a long, glistening fall of blonde hair.

"Speak of the devil," he murmured, leaning in so only Severus could hear.

"Hello, good morning," said Asteria, as soon as she'd got within chatting distance. She had a sweet, lilting voice, although she always sounded like she was expecting to be told to shut up at any moment. She looked from Severus to Remus, and her large, limpid blue eyes went rounder. "Professor Lupin?" she squeaked.

"Hello, Asteria," Remus said. "How are you doing?"

"Oh—oh, I'm very well, thank you," she said confusedly. He got the feeling she was speaking by rote. "How are you, sir?"

"A little winded, after getting up those steps back there," he said, smiling to show her it was a joke; as he remembered her, she was too anxious of doing wrong to realize that some things were meant to be innocently amusing. "Do you think we could come in? We're looking for someone and we hoped you'd be able to help."

"Of course, yes, sir," she said, looking desperately like she hoped she _could_ help. "Up, gates," she told the iron gate in a quavering voice, and with an alarming-sounding groan and the crunch of rusted metal, it scraped up... about a meter and a half.

"I'm sorry," she said, twisting her fingers, "it doesn't go up all the way—"

"It's fine." Remus stooped to get under it, Severus doing the same, and Asteria tremulously ordered the gate to drop. It landed in its grooves with a jarring, shrieking thud.

"Would you like to come in, Professor?" she asked anxiously, and Remus knew it would never have occurred to her that her family might try to throw him out for being a werewolf. "And... erm." She blinked at Severus.

He opened his palm, showing her the ring. "We're looking for Draco Malfoy."

"D-draco M-m-malfoy?" she stammered, her fingers now so tightly gripped together that her knuckles blanched as white as her face.

"It's all right," Remus said with as much gentle reassurance as he could. "His mother sent us. She's looking for him, she's only a bit worried because he hasn't been home for a few days."

"If he _were_ here," Severus said, his domineering gaze pinning her like a trapped rabbit, "you might tell him that an old family friend is here to see him. Someone who's saved his sorry arse a time or two."

She stared at him with large, blank, round eyes, frozen in place. He sighed.

"Go tell him that." Then, almost sarcastically, "Please."

"Yessir," she squeaked. Then she blushed and looked guilty. "Erm. If, if there was a-anyone here by that name... which... that is..."

"Just go," he said wearily. She scuttled away.

Remus buried his ignoble amusement beneath his sympathy. "She's exactly as I remember. Is it regular for pure-blood daughters to answer the door?"

"No. The house-elf was probably sold for gambling funds, maybe this generation, maybe a few back. When at home, Asteria is the family drudge."

Remus really did hate pure-bloods. "What do her parents do when she's at school?"

"They've probably got a destitute female relative hanging on their sleeve." His lip curled, one of his patented expressions limning the stranger's face. "Pure-bloods like having someone around to bully."

A noise made them both glance up. Draco Malfoy, looking more anemic than Remus remembered, was coming down the stone steps that led from the open mouth of the central keep, leaving Asteria hovering at the door. He looked in complete bewilderment at Remus, and then blinked dazedly at Severus.

"Oh," he said, sounding bleary, "it's you. For a second I thought she meant _Lupin_. Why've you brought him here?"

"For the conversation," Severus said, in a tone that in his own body would have been accompanied by glittering eyes and a sneer that cut. "Won't you invite us in?"

"Sure." Draco's eyes were ringed by dark circles and his hair was a little flat on one side, as if he'd just been lying down, but he was clean-shaven and his clothes were tidy enough. "Lupin'd just better hope Daphne doesn't recognize him, or she'll scream the roof down."

"I shouldn't think she would," Remus said. "I don't think she paid attention for five minutes together the whole year I taught her."

"If she screams, I'll hex her," Severus said brutally. "And you're not to call me by name, d'you understand?"

"Sure," Draco said again, shrugging. Remus wondered where this listlessly obedient young man had come from. Somehow it didn't fit the image of Draco that all the faces of outraged madams had forged in his mind.

Severus, too, seemed annoyed, as if a compliant Draco was not what he'd bargained for. Remus wouldn't have thought Severus needed someone to be antagonistic in order to antagonize them in return. Perhaps it was different with Draco, whom he'd always seemed to like. Threats to wring his bleeding neck were positively mild for Severus.

"Er," Draco said when they'd reached Asteria. Remus tried not to sniff; the foyer smelled like bleach and mold. "I'm going to go talk to... the professor," he said, gesturing weakly at Severus, who looked scornful. "Can you... take charge of Lupin?"

"Of course," Asteria said, lighting up like the row of candles in the Italian church.

"He'll probably be hungry," Severus said. He gave Remus a look that, on anyone else, Remus would have called "teasing" as he—yes, swept off after Draco. Remus didn't know how he managed it, since he was wearing Muggle clothes, but there was a definite sweep all the same.

Remus realized he was smiling fondly. It was lucky he was alone with just Asteria. But when he glanced at her, he saw a matching look of wistful yearning on her face as she gazed down the hall after Draco Malfoy. Yes, Remus was probably just that bad himself, with just that sort of melting tenderness. Even thinking about it made him feel an increased rush of jumbled pain and goodness.

"Draco seems to be enjoying it here," he said to her, an observation which was not strictly true, but which he guessed would appeal to her. Sure enough, she beamed at him.

"Oh, I do hope so," she said with apprehensive happiness. "Although I know it's not at _all_ what he's used to. He only has the finest things, everyone knows. But he's been very patient, and kind... just like a lamb."

Remus fought a surge of unholy amusement at the picture of Draco's face if he ever heard himself being described as a lamb, even if it was by an extremely pretty girl. Then he wondered if anyone in their right mind would care if they were called something a bit silly, if it was said in that tone of pure happiness.

"Would you like some refreshment?" Asteria asked in an anxious little rush. "We don't have a lot, but—oh dear, I wasn't supposed to say we don't have a lot—but there's tea, and I've just baked a few scones, with cranberries and raisins and oranges, and Draco says they're quite good. They're just this way, Professor—"

She chattered on as she led him down the icy hall, whistling with wind. If Draco Malfoy had been patient and kind about staying in this place, he had either called upon unheard-of reserves of manners or Asteria had a different definition of patience and kindness than Remus did. But she probably did, poor child.

He couldn't help wondering if Severus did, too.


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Credit: "Atra Dolor" is a non-canon curse created by my friend and beta, diadelphous, and is used with her permission.

Severus had always considered himself lucky to have become the half-blood pet of the Malfoys. They had money. That made them rare among pure-bloods, most of whom had squandered the sense God gave them along with their inheritance. Like Muggle gentry, the upper-class pure-bloods had fallen on hard times over the centuries, but instead of doing the smart thing and marrying the nouveau riche, they had only become more obsessed with marrying their impoverished inbred cousins. At the dawn of the twenty-first century, the British wizarding world had seven wealthy wizarding families, and that included the Malfoys and Harry sodding Potter (although not the politicians like Fudge who regularly siphoned government funds for personal use). The rest of the purest pure-bloods were generally like the Greengrasses: living in houses with the roofs falling in, depending on free slave labor for their scant comforts, and wearing clothes that had been passed down for generations with their moth-holes. But they'd turned it all into a mark of _distinction_. You had to be _born_ to the privilege of being so poor that you only survived because your ancestors had had the means to build houses and buy clothes to last for a thousand years.

The Greengrasses had never been Death Eaters, neither Marked inner circle nor undistinguished outer. The father had probably been too busy at the roulette wheel to notice that a conflict of ideology was resulting in genocide, and the mother would have been too occupied with scheming ways to marry off daughter after daughter. With four girls and no knuts, she'd have needed the past twenty years to figure it out.

Had Draco fallen into her life like manna from Heaven, or had she found some hitherto-unknown reserves of cunning and managed to get him there on her own?

"Mrs Greengrass surely hasn't left you alone with two of her daughters," he said to Draco, although it certainly seemed that way. The drafty, mildewy corridors were silent, and the occasional slitted window they passed showed nothing but deserted fortifications and the eternal solitude of the mountains.

"More or less," Draco said, sounding contemptuous. "Daphne's married, you probably didn't hear—or wouldn't have cared, if you did, not that I'm blaming—some prat by the name of Wenceslas. I'm not actually sure if that's his first name or his last, or even some sort of nickname, really, it's just what everyone calls him. Except for Daphne, who calls him ' _dear_ Wenceslas,' in _that_ way, _all_ the bloody time."

There was a sort of wry humor beneath his scorn that made Severus slightly less inclined to wring his neck the minute he was certain there would be no witnesses. But only slightly. Draco would have to do a lot better than mocking Daphne-dear-Wenceslas to curb his homicidal impulses.

"Greengrass has gone to Monaco, and Wenceslas with him. Mother Greengrass spends a lot of time out of the house on this pretext and that. I figure she's waiting for me to do something stupid, and she'll invoke the old heir laws. She's very _caressing_ , you know? It gives me the creeps, honestly, but she's putting me up and not driving me off yet, so... here."

Draco brought Severus into a circular stone room that overlooked a dizzying drop down the face of the mountain. Lupin thought the surroundings were beautiful, but to Severus they appeared desolate—empty sky, jagged peaks, barren, rocky slopes spattered with snow. He'd feel better when he could walk along the water again.

"I'm surprised you can bear to stay in this place," he said, watching his breath mist in front of him, even as softly as he was forced to speak. The cold of the castle walls penetrated to his bones. At least Hogwarts hadn't been on the crest of the fucking Swiss Alps.

"Warming charms," Draco said, casting them around the room and rekindling the fire in the hearth. Severus noticed two chairs by the fire, along with a basket of knitting.

"One for you and one for Miss Greengrass?" he asked sardonically.

On cue, Draco went pink. Lovely.

"She's nice," Draco muttered, going pinker.

" _Nice_?" It might have been the truth, and it was a word Severus used unreservedly for Lupin, but he wouldn't have thought Draco Malfoy gave a good damn about _nice_.

"Well, she is," Draco muttered more defensively. "The tiniest thing makes her happy. Look," he said, changing tacks, perhaps because his face was now the color of Valentine's cards, "I'm not in any trouble or anything, so why ever Mother sent you—"

"You're here because you're _not_ in trouble."

Draco's blush deepened to a shade of pink that had probably only been seen previously coloring Nymphadora's hair. The thought of her made Severus' stomach twist like it was being ratcheted through a clothes wringer.

"Okay, okay," Draco said, "so I needed to get a bit lost. There was this girl, you see, at The Phoenix Rising—"

"There were a lot of girls at The Phoenix Rising," Severus said flatly. "As well as the twenty-two other whorehouses Lupin and I dragged ourselves through—"

"Look, I wasn't actually sleeping with... all that many. Just a couple. It wasn't that great, actually, they were both just sort of bored, and the rest of it was just a bit of drinking and some dice and rot like that—"

"For a total of two hundred thousand, fifty-seven galleons?"

Draco went the same shade as the snow that had blown onto the windowsill overnight. "Wh-whaat?"

"The price may have been inflated by an irate madam or two," Severus said unconcernedly, "but that's the grand total of all your little... escapades."

"Salazar's staff," Draco managed. " _Shit_. I didn't—it couldn't have been that much! They—"

"I really don't care. If you didn't know how much you bloody owed, then why are you here?"

"That's what I was trying to tell you." Draco started blushing again. "Okay, there was this one girl—at The Phoenix Rising, right—and I thought she was... one of theirs, only... she wasn't."

Severus could literally _see_ it coming.

"She was... Ilsa von Reitter zu Montaudon."

Severus pinched the bridge of his nose. "Jesus Christ, Draco."

"I didn't know! I had no idea! She was just _there_ , in the room with all the gamblers and everything going on, and she came up to me, and—what was I supposed to think?"

"What's she got on you?" Severus asked wearily. Narcissa was going to split her sides laughing. Severus briefly considered telling Draco that it was very unlikely he'd need to worry, since his mother was an old flame of Ilsa von Reitter's great-uncle the Baron, and then opted on the side of vengeful cruelty. Let the boy squirm a bit.

"She's just made vague threats so far—"

"I didn't ask what she's demanding, I asked what she has."

"A... photograph," Draco said, going from pink to green. "And... my ring."

Severus considered pitching him out the window. It was only long-standing friendship with Narcissa that stopped him.

"So you went to ground before her threats got any more concrete," Severus said mockingly. "At least your self-preservation instinct is in working order, wherever your brains have gone." _Down your trousers, obviously._ At least Severus managed some semblance of thought while mooning over Lupin. Sometimes. Occasionally.

"I needed time to think of what to do," Draco said sulkily.

"Draco, at times when finesse and cunning are needed, you should always consult your mother. I don't care what this little von Reitter thinks she's made of, she's no match for Narcissa."

Lily would have been, and Lupin was, even without two ounces of guile between the pair of them; but they all had _strength_ in common. Some silly girl who pranced around in whorehouses to bribe rich young fools, likely because she was bored, would be beneath their contempt. Of course, Lupin would probably feel sorry for her and say it was a pity she hadn't taken up sailing or baking or fencing instead of extortion, but he didn't know anything about rich young pure-blood girls.

"But... It just seemed so..." Draco made a vague twirling motion with his hand.

"Do you think your mother understands nothing about what young men get up to? Unlike you, she's not a raving idiot, and she's a great deal less innocent." Draco only looked blank. Severus sighed. "I'm telling you, young fool, that you need to go home."

"Yeah, I know," Draco said, wilting a bit. "Before Asteria's old hag of a mum really gets her claws in." He glanced up, his expression a curious mixture of hopeful and falsely nonchalant. "Do you think Mother would invite Asteria to stay?"

Severus fought the urge to bury his face in his hands.

"I just don't like the idea of leaving her here with her shrew of a sister," Draco went on, apparently oblivious to Severus' teeth-grinding dismay. "Not for Christmas, at least, you know. They don't even have a house-elf, they're expecting her to do all the cooking."

"As much as I'd love to ruin the Greengrass family Christmas by stealing their chef and washerwoman, "your mother already has house-guests."

"What, _Lupin?_ You got _Mother_ to let that shabby werewolf in?"

"In _case_ you've forgotten, Lupin's son is your first cousin once removed."

"I didn't know Lupin had a son."

"He married Nymphadora, you dolt."

"Oh. Right." Draco's expression cleared. "Well, that's that, then, Mother's been fussing about family lately. But Asteria loves babies and all that—oh, if you're worried about her knowing you're still alive, you don't need to be, she worshiped you, practically. She won't say anything. All right, she might cry, but I'll tell her on my own and get it out of her system."

Great. Now Severus would not only spend his Christmas pining hopelessly for Lupin, he'd have to endure it in the presence of five other people, two of whom would be blushing love-birds. Perhaps he'd just fall off the mountain and get it over with.

"I have no interest in stopping you from bringing her," Severus said, which was the truth. "Do whatever you want. Which you will, and I'm too old and tired to give a damn."

"Great," Draco said, with something almost like enthusiasm; except Narcissa had created him in her image, and effusion was so plebeian. "Let's _go_ , then, I'm sick of this pile, it's like sleeping on rocks in the snow."

"Fine," Severus said wearily. Perhaps it was Draco's pure-blood equivalent of bounding around the room singing at the top of his voice because he was bringing his sweetheart home to meet his mother. Severus might be even less of the bounding, singing type than any run of the mill pure-blood, but that didn't mean he wouldn't have appreciated the opportunity to repress it.

"Gather up all your rubbish and meet me at the entrance," he told Draco. "I'll find Lupin and Asteria."

"Sure," Draco said amiably, grabbing random objects about the room and chucking them into an open bag.

Severus left him to it. The icy, gloomy halls suited him better, where it was silent and cold and he was alone. That was his natural state, the one he returned to without even trying. Even when he did try, he always ended up back there.

His logical thoughts interrupted his brooding self-pity in order to remind him that he had no idea where Lupin and the girl would be. Shrugging it off, he headed back toward the courtyard entrance. He knew that Asteria had led Lupin in the direction opposite from Severus and Draco's; it stood to reason that Severus could head that way and listen for their voices. Every sound in this place echoed magnified off the bare stone of the walls and floors. Perhaps that was what made the silence so eerie: that large pile of stone, almost empty of sound except for the unceasing chorus of the wind.

The problem with bare stone walls and floors was that they all looked the same. There: he recognized that staircase, broad and deep with shadows, stretching up into the well of the castle, the wind shrieking down it...

 _That's not the wind_ , his hindbrain told him.

He stopped and listened. The wind moaned, seeking out the gaps in his clothes. He turned and peered up the staircase into the shadows, facing into the wind knifing down from upper floors. Other than that, the castle around him was silent.

The moment he put a foot on the lowest stair, he knew his instincts had been right. They were whispering at him now, a continuing thrum of encouragement. _Go up the stairs. It's up there, somewhere. You know it is._

He mounted into the shadows. The wind seemed even colder the further he climbed, as if at the top of the stairs he would find a world of ice and darkness. He felt a nasty prickling all over his skin and knew his Polyjuice was wearing off, but he didn't bother with another dose, not now. When he saw the patch of light at the top of the stairs that signaled the entrance to the first-floor corridor, he saw his own pale, thin hand guiding him up the bare wall of the stairwell.

He emerged into the upper corridor, which was empty and silent like all the others. Mounds of snow had blown in through the windows and lay in cluttered patches on the floor, but there was no one up here. There was no hallway to the right, so he went to the left.

As approached the first open doorway, he heard the murmur of a voice, sounding... far below. And constant, like a litany. But how could it be far below?

He drew up to the doorway and slid his hand toward the doorjamb. Leaning just the barest amount around, he found himself peering into a shadowed alcove behind worm-eaten woodwork, where even in the cold he could smell the sweet sickliness of rot. Old music stands and pieces of broken furniture had been chucked in like garbage waiting to be taken out.

A minstrel's gallery. The banquet hall stretched out below it, and slumped on the floor, in a tangle of blonde hair, was Asteria—and a bit further away, _Lupin_ —both unconscious.

The third man was not unconscious. He was young, and handsome, with curling dark hair and an expression of tranquility so complete it signified utter madness. He was the proper age to have been one of Severus' students, but he was completely unfamiliar... except for that expression of mental disturbance that had gone so far into itself it had emerged from the other side as serenity. But the mind behind that unfamiliar face was still mad as hell.

Was that why he'd hurt Lupin and Asteria Greengrass? He shouldn't have—they were innocents; they should have been safe—

Had Severus been wrong? But then the bastard shouldn't be here at all...

The young man raised his head, looking down the length of the ballroom, completely at peace.

"Severus Snape?" he said, almost gently. Since Severus didn't recognize him, he had rather been expecting an accent that signaled foreign schooling, but the madman talked like any middle class Londoner.

Severus' hand was clenched so tightly around his wand the bones in his knuckles were aching. His senses felt strung out on wires, turning the hues and colors of the room around him to technicolor brilliance. He was aware that his fingers and feet felt frozen, and that his heart was a trembling knot in his chest; but he was not such a fucking idiot that he was going to charge down there.

Not yet.

"Professor Snape," the young man said again, still staring straight ahead—at the doorway that led into the banquet hall. "I have been searching for you for some time, now."

Still Severus did not speak.

"You must realize that you are one of the last," said the boy. "You and the Malfoys. Will you not come down and talk to me?"

 _Right, because being_ polite _will fool someone into thinking you're not here to kill them_. But his blood was tingling and his vision was filled with the sight of Lupin's slack face. There was no blood on Lupin, but there wouldn't be, because it took fire or silver, and this young man had a potion that burned the body in magical fire—

At that thought, Severus almost, _almost_ moved. But you couldn't save someone by giving up your only advantage for nothing. He had to keep thinking straight, as if he didn't care whether he or Lupin or Draco or Asteria Greengrass lived or died. Because if he _didn't_ think straight, they _would_ die.

He felt cold. All over. Even his face felt...

Cold...

Ice.

The lowest circle of the Inferno was made of ice.

Where traitors went.

His breath wmisted in front of him.

When he looked down through the worm-eaten woodwork, he saw the young man staring straight up at him.

"Will you please come down?" he called up, with a gentleness that was a mockery of Lupin's, because Lupin didn't torture people, would never do it, not even if it meant his own soul.

Severus descended the dark, cramped stairwell that led from the gallery to the ground floor. His mind felt calmer now. His hands were turning to blocks of ice, but they were steady.

It might have been colder on the floor of the banquet hall, or it might just have been that Severus was freezing further to death by the second. He left the darkness of the stairwell and crossed the dusty stone floor, his entire focus centered on detecting whether or not Lupin was breathing. He was, thinly—but he was.

Severus looked into the madman's face and hissed with every ounce of brutal cruelty in his heart: " _Atra dolor_."

The curse hit the bastard dead center in the chest. Surprise blossomed on his face; he looked down at himself where the spell had hit, where a dark sprain was spreading beneath his white shirt. It was not blood, but rot. When he looked back up at Severus, he still looked surprised, but beneath it pain cracked like ice across a pond.

"My death will be the final stain on your soul," he said calmly, the fucking nutbag.

"It will be my final satisfaction," Severus hissed, in part from hatred and disgust, but also because his lips were growing too numb to move. "Unless you tell me what you did to Lupin. Then I _may_ reverse it. If I feel so inclined."

"Remus will be fine," he said, still in that tranquil way, even as the veins in his neck started turning black, showing gruesomely beneath his skin. His breath was starting to shorten from the pain and his posture was beginning to hunch in on itself, but he was remaining upright. Severus would have been impressed, if he hadn't wanted to rip his head off with his bare hands. But he had to find out what the sick shit had done to Lupin—

"So will the young lady," he continued serenely, as his blackening hands curled into his palms. "I only Stunned them."

"Thank you," Severus grit out. The cold was starting to become too painful to ignore and he wanted to collapse, but he wasn't going to be the one who caved first. "If _only_ that curse I just used had a counter-spell."

"I do not fear death." He was gasping now, as his skin turned colors it shouldn't have been allowed to while the body was still living. "I have done—as much—as—"

He fell to the floor, catching himself on his hands and knees. Severus followed a second later, fiercely proud of himself for maintaining that much, even though he sagged onto his side a moment later. It was becoming difficult to breathe. But he had to keep breathing... he had to... he wasn't going to be the one to die first, he was going to _watch_ as this crazy shit died, and take that final satisfaction with him...

He was so busy concentrating all his willpower on surviving long enough to outlive the son of a bitch that he missed Lupin stirring. But then Lupin sat up, partially blocking the mad bastard from Severus' sight, and the thought flashed through Severus' mind to be glad that Lupin hadn't been unconscious when he died, even if he wasn't particularly thrilled that Lupin was going to _watch_.

Lupin blinked frantically around, and when he saw Severus, he went as white as snow.

"No—" He scrambled forward. Severus lost the strength and feeling in his arms and collapsed onto his back. He still retained enough sense to realize Lupin was raising him off the floor, or at least trying to; Severus had to be a dead weight, unable as he was to move any part of himself.

"Severus?" Lupin's voice sounded as if it was coming from far away, now. Severus could feel something smooth brushing across his skin, something almost warm, if he could remember what warmth felt like.

"Severus. Severus, look at me. Can you look at me? Severus?"

He tried to focus on Lupin. All he could see, however, were Lupin's eyes—a pale, crystalline blue: the color of ice. Fitting. Leglimency didn't work on werewolves, but Severus felt as if he were looking into the mirror of his own soul, and it was all frozen.

His lifeless hand was resting on Lupin's chest, pressed there by Lupin himself. Severus' fingernails were turning blue. "I'm sorry," he said, or tried to. His lips didn't move.

Lupin was very close to him. He might have been holding Severus painfully tight, but he couldn't feel it. With the last will of his dying body, the last of his courage, he leaned forward and, perhaps, pressed a kiss against Lupin's face.

All he felt was the cold.

* * *

Severus was walking through winter. The ground was made of crystalline grass; the trees draped with snow; the earth white as it reached for the horizon, pale and colorless in the morning twilight. His robes, though, were black, dusting with snow as he walked.

So he was dead, was he? Dante said the lowest circle of Hell was frozen, the eternal torment of traitors.

He stopped as if suddenly encased in a block of ice when saw her. But that couldn't be right; _she_ wouldn't be in Hell. It looked like her, but it couldn't be: wearing white so that she blended into the landscape as if camouflaged, except for the vibrant red of her hair, the only color in the whole blanket-white world. Her hands were pressed together at the palm, held against her lips. Tears were running down her face, but not turning to ice, as his did just then when they pricked the corners of his eyes.

Perhaps she wasn't really there, in Hell. Perhaps this was just part of his torment. Perhaps wherever she really was, it was warm.

"Severus," she said, and held out her hands. Slowly, he took them. He could feel her skin, and it was warm. Not as warm as Lupin's, but warm still in a way he wanted to remember, except it had been too long ago.

She half-laughed, still crying. "You grew up."

Still holding her hands, he felt himself sinking to his knees in front of her, as if in supplication. The ice crunched beneath his knees. "I'm so sorry." He had promised himself he would say it, if he ever saw her again; but he found he didn't need that promise, forged in life, to do it. He had wanted to say it for twenty years. "For everything."

She squeezed his hands; and then she knelt, too, in the ice and the snow. "So am I," she said. Her breath misted the air, the way Lupin's had done in the snow beside the lake.

"You don't have anything to be—"

She shook her head and placed her hand against his cheek. "It's not important," she whispered, more tears slipping from the corners of her eyes. "It doesn't matter. It's not about balance, Severus. It's about... something else." She smiled again, radiant, blinding even in the midst of that white expanse.

"That's eloquent," he said, and she laughed. He remembered Lupin laughing, the snow in his silvered hair, and the memory hurt, like ice crystals forming in his heart. They probably were ice crystals, in fact. He was dying—or had he died already?

"I don't know," Lily said, "what do you think?"

"I didn't say anything."

A slight smile curved her mouth. "I guess you didn't have to."

"I don't think it matters. Dead, dying—it's all the same."

"Is it? Once you're dead, that's... it. For the people you left in life. But when you're dying, there's still a bit of hope, isn't there? Because you're still living?"

"My life was worth nothing."

She squeezed his hands. "Was it really?"

He thought of Lupin again. Of the look on his face when he held his child, and the way the lines around his eyes and mouth shifted when he smiled, and the sight of the sun smoothing the planes of his face.

"Hey," Lily said. She placed her palm on his chest, dead over his heart. "Feel this."

He put his hand over hers, and she laced their fingers together. There, where they touched, it was warm. He realized the sun was lifting over the horizon, transforming the snow and ice into prisms of dazzling white. And beneath their knees, where they knelt, the snow was melting in an ever-widening circle, burnishing to stalks of green.

Lily threw her arms around his neck. Her tears were warm on his face. He could feel the beat of her heart. "I'm so happy for you, Sev," she whispered.

Then the sky went a blinding, molten white-gold.


	19. Chapter 19

_Christmas Eve_

Severus was not cold. In fact, he was feeling rather warm. And a bit stifled.

He squinted his eyes open. Oh. It was Lupin's bare arm, thrown across his chest. His own bare chest. Who had bloody taken his clothes? Again?

This was getting to be a habit with Lupin. Perhaps Severus wouldn't have minded, if he could be certain this wasn't some sort of Gryffindorian altruism—staunchly throwing yourself half-naked in bed with people who'd nearly died in your arms.

How was he not dead? He'd been freezing to death; he was quite certain of that... and he'd murdered the sick son of a bitch who'd done it, so there was no asking him...

The frozen, wintry earth where he'd stood with Lily flashed into his mind, and he felt his fingers and toes tingle with the memory of the bone-chilling cold.

He turned his head enough to look at Lupin, who was sleeping, but fitfully. His eyebrows were crossed in a frown, even in sleep, and every now and then he'd twitch.

Well, if he wasn't sleeping like a lamb, Severus might as well wake him up and find out why in Hell he wasn't dead. He prodded Lupin in one of the only fleshy spots on his skinny body, the space on the inside of his upper arm, and said, "Lupin, wake up."

"Mrmm." Instead of obeying, Lupin frowned more deeply in his sleep and burrowed—half into the pillow, half into the curve where Severus' neck met his shoulder. Lupin was now breathing on his collarbone, and his breath was even hotter than his skin. This was unproductive to finding out what had happened to him, but very productive to producing electric currents through his bloodstream.

"Lupin!" Severus hissed, jabbing him harder, this time with his knee. It connected with Lupin's ribs, but he was so bony Severus wasn't sure if his knee hadn't actually come off the worse.

Lupin surged bolt upright, his hand clattering onto the nightstand, coming up with his wand, which he used to threaten the ceiling haphazardly. He stopped, then, blinking around at the room, and rubbed at his eyes.

Severus poked him in his bony ribs. "Down here, you dolt."

Lupin's head turned so quickly toward him, Severus could have sworn he heard the crick. He stared down at Severus, his expression frozen in a kind of blank shock—and then he literally threw himself on top of Severus and _bloody well kissed him_.

"Thank God," Lupin said, and kissed him again. "Thank"—kiss—"God"—kiss.

Severus was so stunned he almost stopped thinking. A large part of his brain did just that, in fact. But one little working cog kept clicking away, informing him that these did not feel like just friendly kisses, or even victory kisses, unless victory came with an emotion that made spine-tingling heat surge throughout your body.

God, Lupin's skin was warm. It was like walking out into spring sunshine after you'd spent the whole winter in a frigid dungeon. And Lupin's hair felt so soft sliding between his fingers, soft like—nothing in the realm of comparison. It was the sort of softness you set standards to.

Lupin stopped kissing him. Severus' eyes opened, but Lupin was only grinning at him, with a kind of joy that would have made anyone else smile back. Severus only had the power to bask in it, with a kind of wonder that anyone should look at him that way, the way he had wanted, always.

Perhaps he was still trapped in his own psyche, completing another final aspiration.

He traced his fingertips over Lupin's cheekbone, up around his eye and across his eyebrow. Lupin's grin faded, but strangely the joy didn't seem to. It just sort of shifted, sinking from a blinding light to a more quiet shadow, settling into the lines that mapped the lifelong catalog of Lupin's happiness and pain.

"Are you all right?" Lupin asked. His voice, habitually horse, was low, almost as quiet as Severus' was forced to be nowadays. "You're not cold anymore?"

Severus only shook his head. Whether this was real or not, he wasn't cold. He felt very, very warm. Every part of him that was tangled with Lupin was dampening with sweat, in fact.

"Are you okay otherwise?" Lupin's pale eyes searched Severus' face, clearly looking for something, but as Severus didn't know what, he couldn't show him. "Remember what year it is and who's Minister for Magic and all?"

"Yes, and in spite of knowing, I don't fucking care."

Lupin grinned again. "You seem fine, all right."

Severus felt oddly bold, considering he was mostly naked. He threaded his fingers in the hair at Lupin's nape and gave Lupin a look so pointed it didn't need words. But Lupin had always been clever and shrewd. And, apparently, the sort of kisser Severus thought was best described as _erotic_.

"How am I not dead?" Severus muttered against Lupin's lips.

Lupin pulled back just enough to answer, but kept so close he could have been speaking with Severus' breath. "Bezoar. I didn't actually remember that Draco was a quick-thinker."

Severus' head felt empty, stupefied. "That's _it_?"

"Apparently he's carried one since he woke up in a back alley of The Golden Peacock in his underwear with his shoes missing."

"What good would it've done him to carry a bezoar if they stole everything off him except his sodding underpants? Unless he kept it somewhere _very_ private, in which case I can't believe you let him force that down my throat."

Lupin laughed helplessly into the pillow, over Severus' shoulder. "I swear it didn't occur to me."

Someone rapped on the door. Severus wished they'd sod off to Hell. He was half-naked in bed with Remus bloody Lupin—alive, when he'd figured that by all rights he would be dead, now. He had more important things to do than talk to someone he very probably couldn't stand anyway.

"Get rid of whoever the hell it is," he told Lupin, who was getting out of bed, taking away his almost sinful warmth.

"It's probably Draco. But I suppose it could be Narcissa. I don't think it's an Auror—"

"An _Auror_?" Severus pushed himself up. Whoever was on the other side of the door knocked again, more impatiently, but Severus ignored them.

"The Swiss authorities came to pick up Lancelot," Lupin said, pulling on a dressing gown, his movements and voice both abstracted, "but he's a British subject, so it's complicated... Draco did say some Aurors came by to speak with whoever they could, but I wanted to stay with you, so I haven't seen them."

"Lupin—"

"Remus," Lupin corrected, kissing him briefly. Then he smiled and went to open the door. He kept himself mostly framed in the opening, though, and said, "Good morning, Draco."

"You were laughing at something, is he up?" Draco sounded about two syllables away from shoving Lupin to the floor and walking over him to get into the room.

"He's awake," Lupin said with the particular pleasantness he adopted around very rude people. "Let us get dressed and we'll come out."

Then he presumably shut the door in Draco's face, and bolted i.

"I didn't agree to that," Severus said.

Lupin looked at him beseechingly. Only decades of honed, contrary bastardness kept Severus from leaping to do whatever Lupin wanted, even if it was getting dressed and making chit-chat with Draco, not to mention the boy's most recent romantic conquest and assorted other people Severus would rather push down the stairs than talk to for five minutes together.

"Did the Order recruit you to look at Death Eaters that way so they'd take off their masks and go quietly to prison?"

Lupin laughed and then kissed him again. It was much more effective than the look; it had the intriguing (though not altogether unannoying) quality of resigning Severus to getting out of bed while making him want to do the opposite.

"Get dressed," Lupin said fondly.

"Where's my Polyjuice?" Severus asked as he pulled on his trousers and shirt.

Lupin came over to help him fasten his buttons. "Do you really need it? I'm rather tired of looking at that fellow, to be honest."

"If Aurors are crawling around—"

"We'll ask Draco," Lupin said, smoothing Severus' collar. Then he smiled, one of those smiles of charming sweetness that made Severus feel literally dizzy. He was hopeless. Or did he mean helpless? Either way he cut it...

" _Excuse_ me," Draco hollered through the door, "how bloody long does it take to get bloody dressed? Whatever you're doing, just stop it and get out here! I want to know what's going on, Severus!"

"Somehow, I don't think he does," Lupin said, with a look that shot straight to the core of Severus' barely banked arousal. That look might be even more arresting than the smiles.

"Severus!" Draco whined, banging on the door.

"I think we should follow his whores' example and drug him," Severus said.

"Not a bad idea," Lupin agreed, a layer of gravity over his amusement, but he unlocked the door and opened it so Severus could see Draco.

" _Finally_ ," he said peevishly. " _Don't_ tell me what took so long."

"I thought you _wanted_ to know everything," Severus said.

"About the _murders_ and all," Draco said. "I can guess well enough about all that other stuff, all right."

Severus followed Lupin into the chamber beyond the bedroom, which was even chillier and less well-stocked than Draco's guest room. There was only a sulky fire, a moth-eaten settee, and a couple of high-backed chairs with mismatched legs. No windows, even. It was just as well, though: outside the ring of Lupin's warmth, he still felt chilled.

Lupin wrapped a blanket around Severus' shoulders and gave him a slight smile. An infusion of warmth seemed to flow throughout Severus' veins. God, he wished Draco anywhere but here. The strength of the wish was so strong he was almost surprised to see Draco still eying them from the settee with an almost Narcissa-like look.

"Why don't you know anything?" Severus asked him, letting Lupin nudge him toward a chair. "You've been awake all this time and in the company of Swiss authorities, haven't you?"

"They just took the bugger off without even a by-your-leave," Draco said, "and he was half-dead. They _did_ talk to Lupin," here he gave Lupin a reproachful glare, "but then he just shut himself up with you and wouldn't come out."

"Asteria hasn't told you anything?" Lupin asked.

"No," Draco said, apparently torn between exasperation and worry, "she just starts crying hysterically whenever anyone brings it up. And her family badgered her so much, I tried to send her to Mother, but that made her faint, so..."

"What's she got to cry about?" Severus asked.

"She came to when you were—well, dying," Draco said, scowling at him, as though he wanted to defend Asteria Greengrass but didn't quite know how. It wasn't as if he was in the habit of defending people, after all.

"Oh," Severus said. "How fantastic."

"She seems very fond of you," Lupin said, smiling at him irresistibly. But decades of bad mood stood Severus in good enough stead for him to maintain a credible assumption of bad manners.

"That girl is more than likely fond of bread mold."

Draco muttered something that might have been _Bread mold's more likeable than you half the time_ , but perhaps Severus was only projecting.

"Can I know what happened, please?" Draco asked testily.

"After I know how it occurred to you to charge into the room and shove a bezoar down my throat."

"What d'you mean, 'how'? It's been all over the bloody news, that poison. I'm more surprised you _weren't_ carrying one. All those Gryffindors are bad for you, Severus. They're making you as reckless as one of them."

Severus couldn't help it; this stung. "They're not exactly sold wherever you find aspirin," he snapped. "And I was supposed to be _presumed dead_."

Both he and Draco looked at Lupin, who blushed. "He overheard us talking in the church. Outside of Turin."

Severus blinked. "He... what?"

"He'd been looking for Draco for a long time," Lupin said. "He'd tracked him to the same region we did—"

"You weren't exactly inconspicuous," Severus told Draco.

"—and he saw me and came over to say 'hello,' and overheard us talking about—everything."

Severus could _see_ the guilt building in Lupin's face and knew he had to head it off. "Don't you dare," he said, longing for the heavy sharpness of his old voice. "Don't you dare sit there thinking this is your fucking fault."

"But—"

"Did you plant the seed of an idea in his head? No, and even if you had, it still would have been his bloody choice to poison half the nation. Lupin, he was completely out of his fucking mind."

"But—"

"Shut up or I'll hex you."

Lupin, the infuriating man, took his hand and squeezed it.

"As much as I don't care whether or not Lupin blames himself," Draco said, staring at their joined hands, "I have to agree with Severus. What are _you_ supposed to have done?"

"Not used his name in public?" Lupin sighed. "Not stood there like a fathead when he showed up here? It's not been my best week, this last one..."

"How _did_ he get in?" Severus asked. "How did he _find_ us, for that matter?"

"He put a tracking charm on pieces of our clothing while we were in the church. As for getting in here, he just _knocked_ ," Lupin said with a kind of resignation, as if he had grown accustomed to shame. "Like we did. Asteria went to answer the door. When she didn't come back after five or so minutes, I went to look for her, and when I got to the courtyard I saw her... well, it looked like she'd passed out, but I was afraid she'd fallen and hit her head."

"She was Stunned," Draco said.

"He was telling the truth about that, at least," Severus muttered.

"Then he said my name, and I looked up..." Lupin rubbed at his forehead. "When I saw him, I just—I just didn't _get_ it. D'you remember, outside the church, when I said I thought I'd seen something but I hadn't?"

"It was _him_?" Severus might be considering wringing Lupin's neck after all.

"No, it was someone else I worked with in Accidents & Catastrophes, Will Cauther. Turns out he was trying to find Lancelot. He was afraid Lancelot was the one doing the poison. They were lovers once, but it ended very badly, with a public scandal and everything... but Lancelot—when I saw him here—I just didn't understand, until he apologized for Stunning Asteria and said it had to be done, and he was very sorry... but then everything's a big blank, so I'm assuming that's when he Stunned _me_."

"His name's _Lancelot_?" Severus said, revolted.

"Lancelot Cringe," Draco added. "Lupin told me _that_ much. Or should I say, that's _all_ he told me—"

"Is he dead yet?"

"No," Lupin said, with an expression Severus couldn't interpret. "That curse you hit him with, I recognized it from the War. We developed a counter-curse for it, right before..." He rubbed the back of his neck; Severus fought a wince. "Well, I'm glad I managed to do _one_ thing right, at least, and remembered the counter—"

" _Glad_?" Severus repeated, even more revolted. "Glad you saved that fucking—"

"Yes, Severus," Lupin said quietly, "because if I hadn't, and he'd died, what do you think would have happened to you?"

Severus opened his mouth, found he had nothing to say, and then shut it. If this Cringe had died and Aurors had come rushing in to find Severus still alive, after all this time, and no one the wiser but a handful of people who hadn't been poisoned...

"Fucking hell," he said. Lupin took his hand again.

"Really, Severus," Draco said, "even _I_ worked _that_ out myself."

"Aren't you clever," Severus said. "That's me shown up, not being able to think while I was dying. How did he get the poison through, then, if you're so clever? I haven't eaten or drunk anything all day, and he didn't even touch me—"

"We checked you over and found traces of it still on your hands," Lupin said, his grip tightening on one of these hands. "He'd spread it on all the door jambs leading onto the banquet hall."

Severus found that he had nothing to say to that either.

"Draco called the Swiss authorities while you were..." Lupin trailed off as an odd look fractured across his face, "...but we might've got you out of sight before they arrived if the Greengrasses hadn't first..."

"Are you saying I'm..." He groped for words to convey an emotion he wasn't yet sure of.

"Out?" Draco said, as if this was witty.

"I know curses Lupin hasn't thought of counters for," Severus reminded him, dangerously soft. Draco actually shifted down the settee away from him. Satisfying.

"So," Draco coughed, "now what? I mean, what was the point of, of everything?"

"Severus thinks it was about retribution," Lupin said. "Unpunished war crimes. Right, Severus? And I have to agree, considering who he was after."

"He said the Malfoys and I were the last," Severus said. "So it seems safe to assume I was right, yes. But I suppose we'll know some time after the authorities do. Funnily enough, I find I don't give a fuck."

"Well," Draco said, rolling his eyes slightly, "it's good to see you're back on form."

* * *

 

Remus was torn between two desires: the first to rush back to the Malfoys' and hold his son as tightly as he could, and the second to pull Severus into his arms and not let him go, ever, even to do things like bathe and eat. He had it all worked out: Severus could feed and bathe him, and he'd return the favor. _See_ how it had all worked out?

A lot of things had seemed to be working themselves out in the past twenty-four hours, but Remus only felt as if he'd received a series of electrical shocks. He had realized, as he'd lain beside Severus in the borrowed, musty bed, trying to siphon some of his perpetual warmth into Severus' clammy skin, that he was arguably better at dealing with loss than with success. He knew how to handle grief. He'd had practice. But he had felt hollowed out since he held Severus' frozen body in his arms, barely able to move to help Draco force the stone past his teeth and down his throat, as his body turned all to ice. They had been fighting against Lancelot's ingenious malice; against time, against death. Somehow, they had won.

Perhaps he just needed time to absorb it.

But at odd intervals, the sight of Severus' lifeless face, the feeling of his stone-cold hand in Remus', the dead weight of his faintly breathing body in the bed next to him—this detritus of the recent past would float across Remus' unsettled mind. And then he would _need_ to touch Severus, to ensure himself that he was still here; he was still warm; he was still alive.

Severus was looking rather stunned himself, Remus thought as they waited beside the massive stone fireplace that served as the Greengrasses' Floo point. But at least Severus looked like himself. No more Polyjuice. There wouldn't be any homecoming parade, but Remus was a Gryffindor: he dared to hope there would be something... all right in a future where Severus didn't hide from the world behind a stranger's face.

Right now Severus was standing with his arms clamped across his chest, his shoulders hunched in, his hair falling across his cheekbones, watching the people around him with sharp, suspicious eyes along the jutting curve of his nose. It was all so very Severus, and it made Remus' heart spin.

He tucked a piece of Severus' hair behind his ear, smiling when the black eyes flew to rest on him. "Have I mentioned how happy I am that you're all right?"

"I don't recall those exact words," Severus said coolly, while his fingers clenched on his arms, "but there was an action or two that might have communicated as much."

He didn't look pleased, but sort of... disbelieving, as if, like Remus, he was having some trouble believing it was all happening.

Well, when you'd survived as many things as they had, you learned the merits of skepticism the hard way.

Remus was so relieved when they finally departed the Greengrasses' some fifteen minutes later that he felt as if a weight had been pulled off his chest. Asteria did return with them to the Malfoys', clinging to Draco's hand. Remus wanted to do the same to Severus.

When they stumbled out of Narcissa's gleaming marble fireplace, Remus was almost knocked back into the fireplace by a messy-haired blur.

"Remus!" Harry barreled into him, clamping his arms around Remus so tightly they both staggered. Severus physically _leapt_ out of the way.

"Harry—" Remus started laughing and then he couldn't seem to stop. His voice started to take on a hysterical edge. Even Draco looked alarmed.

"Hey now," Harry said, giving him a shake. "It's okay, yeah? Everyone's okay. You were right, none of us got hurt, and everyone here is okay."

"Sorry," Remus gasped, wiping at his eyes, which had begun to run. "I don't—I've just been a mess. Sorry."

"What are you apologizing for?" Harry asked. "Stop being _silly_."

All noise in the foyer seemed to sink beneath the weight of expectation. Rubbing his eyes clear of tears, Remus looked up. Harry had turned to stare at Severus, who had backed up against the fireplace as if expecting Harry to go for his entrails. But Harry's expression was full of shining wonder. Glancing at Severus' face, Remus decided Severus would've preferred it if Harry had tried to kill him.

"It's good to see you, sir," Harry said at last, his voice as hushed as if they all stood in a cathedral.

"Potter," Severus said, as if he'd just drunk a potion that was turning him to stone.

Remus wanted nothing more than to wrap Severus up in hugs and tell him it was really all right, but he had to settle for an action Severus would appreciate receiving in front of all these people.

"Harry," he said, drawing the boy's attention back to him, "will you take me to Teddy? After all this, I just want to hold him."

"Right, of course," Harry said. He glanced back to the spot Severus had stood, and his face fell: in the time of that short distraction, Severus had split. There was practically a Severus-shaped outline where he'd stood against the fireplace.

"Well," Draco said haughtily, "we should go say 'hello' to my mother, Asteria. This way."

He took Asteria's hand and dragged her past Harry, giving him a sneer as he went. Harry glowered back, but then hitched an embarrassed smile on his face when Asteria floated past him, her eyes huge.

"Won't they have perfect blond babies?" Harry muttered to Remus, seizing him by the hand and towing him along in Draco and Asteria's wake.

Narcissa had been at work while they were gone. Everything smelled of pine from boughs she (or, rather, Paddy) had hung from the ceilings and tables, and candles glowed on every surface, the reflections of their flames swimming on the marble floors.

"I can't believe he's alive," Harry said to Remus in a rush. "I mean, I can't _believe_ it. How did you know? How _long_ have you known? How—"

Remus couldn't help laughing. "That," he said, "is a long story."


	20. Chapter 20

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "The just is close to the people's heart, while the merciful is close to the heart of God" is another quote by Khalil Gibran.

Severus didn't even bother to tell himself he wasn't hiding. Hiding was a time-honored tradition whether you were a Slytherin or an ornery old bastard, and he was both.

He wasn't just hiding from Potter, either; he was also hiding from Lupin. He needed some time to compose himself, away from the twin threats of Lily's son and Lupin's gentleness, so he could figure out what the fuck he was going to do.

Barring himself from Lupin's presence, however, barred him from figuring out Lupin's intentions, which he desperately wanted to do. It made him sound like a missish old spinster, but that wasn't really too far from the truth. He knew that even if Lupin was only looking for a one-off, he'd bloody well take it. He just wanted to know, first, so he could adequately prepare himself for the bitterness and self-loathing that would follow.

Lupin hadn't been helping matters, either— _any_ matters, whether they were on the side of determining his motives or not throwing oneself on him. He wouldn't stop looking over at Severus as if his heart would stop if he weren't there, and smiling with a sweet happiness that was irresistible to a heart as empty and cold and battered as Severus'. He spent the whole morning with weak knees and a swelling heart, which cramped every time his rational mind reminded him that hope was only the enforcer for disappointment.

It was all so... cliché. Fuck.

Yes, Severus thought, irresistible was a good word to describe Lupin. It wasn't the sort of adjective one would obviously apply to someone who went about in tatty corduroy trousers and neglected to cut his hair on time, and who could thoroughly annoy a person by smiling at him when he was trying to be offensive. But perhaps that was part of Lupin's insidious charm: you recognized that he _was_ charming, but you told yourself you couldn't be taken in by something so superficial, until you realized that charm was only a faint, outward symptom of unremitting goodness. And he was the sort of kisser that made your damn _knees_ weak, and made every cliché thought of love and romance and desire wander openly through your head, as if you were the first person who'd ever thought them. And it didn't matter, because you half-believed no one else had ever felt those things justifiably before this, because they'd never been in love with Remus Lupin.

These were good thoughts for Severus to hole himself up in his room brooding over. Everyone else was indulging in post-traumatic happy togetherness—Severus could just see it now. Potter would be nancing about, and Narcissa would give Severus knowing looks, and Asteria's would hero-worship Draco while the wretched boy pretended this didn't make him giddy with delight. Severus was trying to summon the proper contempt for thinking all that rot seemed slightly more bearable than sitting in here alone, mooning over Lupin and wondering when he was going to show up—if he was—when someone knocked on the door.

It turned out to be Draco. This was deeply disappointing. Severus told his heart not to be a pathetic twat and stop wishing it had been Lupin.

"Would you come out here?" Draco said, with charm he might've learned from Severus himself.

"No," Severus said. "Why d'you think I'm in here, because I'm fixing myself up? I'm _hiding_ , you dolt."

"Bugger that for a game of soldiers. Look, come out here and distract Potter, would you? He keeps trying to make polite conversation with Asteria and she can't handle it."

"Draco, the silly girl needs some exposure to other human beings."

"It's not that." (Severus could _hear_ Draco's teeth grinding.) "It's because he's _Harry Potter_. Just now when he went off, she told me she'd gone to _every single one_ of his stupid bloody Quidditch games. She's _memorized_ his saves!"

"Ah," Severus said, as the mists of confusion parted. "You're jealous."

"Now aren't _you_ clever," Draco snapped. "What are you doing in here hiding from him? You used to walk over his neck wearing spikes and you loved it! Come out here and do that again, would you?"

"What's in it for me?" Severus asked, hoping he didn't sound sulky.

"Lupin asked me to come get you."

Severus' heart turned over. "He can't get me himself?"

"Why don't you go _ask_ him yourself," Draco said smugly, and left. Little bastard. There went all the most annoying parts of Lucius _and_ Narcissa.

Regardless of this truly effective parting shot, Severus remained in the room a few moments more. When he realized he was sulking, he finally decided he was too disgusted with himself to be alone with himself a moment longer.

Everyone was cluttering up Narcissa's finest parlor, the one painted in baby powder blue and palest gold. While he'd been hunting the country for her son and dying, Narcissa had been manifesting the Christmas spirit. A massive fir reigned over one end of the room, its branches glittering with strings of silver and white and gold; boughs of pine hung from the ceiling; the room smelled of pine and incense; and white candles burned free of dripping wax on every surface. It reminded him unpleasantly of the church.

When he slunk into the room, Narcissa glanced up from her hushed conversation with her sister, who still looked much too tired for someone who had been living in luxury for the past few days.

"Ah, Severus," Narcissa said, preventing him from lurking behind the tree. "I thought you might come out when you were hungry. Shall I have Paddy bring you anything?"

"You might as well," Severus said, striving for dignity.

His attempt was somewhat impaired by the thing that collided with his legs. It turned out to be Lupin's son. He peered up at Severus from beneath white bangs, and then scampered off, fox tail bouncing, making Draco dodge out of his way with a stifled oath.

"There you are," Lupin said, beaming, as his son ran at him. Severus assumed this effusion was for the boy, but then Lupin said, "Severus, I said, there you are." He waved Severus over. Of course Lupin had to be talking with Potter. Ugh.

Telling himself that close proximity to Potter wasn't nearly the worst thing he had ever endured, even recently, Severus went.

Potter was now holding Lupin's unruly spawn, who had given himself panther-black hair with a matching, sinuous tail, and turned his eyes green-gold.

"It's good to see you, Snape," Potter said to Severus, beaming, too. It was highly disconcerting, being beamed at by Potter.

"You said that already," Severus told him coldly.

"Well... you disappeared since then," Potter said, his eyes wide and innocent behind his glasses. Severus glared at him. Lupin, of course, laughed and put his hand on Severus' arm, just above the elbow.

"Harry brought us a story," he told Severus, his eyes full of thoughts Severus couldn't see.

"They've already printed it in the papers. The confession of that Lancelot guy. I can't believe it was him," he said to Lupin, with the air of someone who'd said this a hundred times before. "He seemed so... _nice_."

"They've _already_ printed it?" Severus said.

"You were unconscious for nearly a whole day," Lupin reminded him. "It'll be Christmas in a few hours, even."

"And they do have a national panic to quell, after all," Severus muttered. He rubbed at one of his temples.

"He didn't put up any resistance, either," Potter said quietly. "He gave a full confession as soon as they let him. I think he wanted to tell everyone what... what it was all about. You know."

"At least tell me Rita Skeeter didn't write it."

To Severus' utter shock, Potter actually laughed. "Thank Merlin, no. She's probably mad as fire right now. Remus's got it, when you want to read. I should probably be getting back," he said to Lupin. There was regret in his tone, but relief soared in Severus' heart. "I told everyone it was just a quick trip, to see you were all right and... everything." His gaze cut toward Severus at that, but then darted back to Lupin.

"Of course." Lupin accepted the bundle of his son, who was chewing sleepily on his own tail. "Give Hermione and all the Weasleys my love."

"Consider it given," Potter said. His eyes flicked toward Severus again and stayed a bit longer.

"We'll walk you to the Floo," Lupin said.

"Right. Let me say bye to Mrs Malfoy..."

Potter managed to conduct his goodbyes with something approaching good manners. Granger must have coached him, because that Weasley girl he was dating, in some grotesque parody of his parents' marriage, was as unruly as her brothers. He was naturally a bit stiff with Draco, but he smiled at Asteria as he shook hands and honest-to-God bowed to both Narcissa and her sister. Narcissa deigned to stand at his departure, and even accorded him the tiniest of curtsies.

While Potter was conducting these surprisingly well-mannered farewells, Lupin gave Severus a communicative glance that said 'Endure Potter a bit longer for me.' When Lupin looked at him like that, Severus really didn't have a choice.

"I hope you can come back to England when this is all over," Potter said as Lupin escorted him to the Floo, with Severus trailing as far behind as he could while still being nominally with them.

"I hope so, too," Lupin said. "But you're all more than welcome to visit."

 _Narcissa will love that_ , Severus thought, although he kept it to himself. He didn't want to do anything to encourage Potter to stay.

"I really do mean it, you know," Potter said. When Lupin poked Severus in the arm, he realized Potter was talking to him. The slight smile on Potter's face shot Severus back more than twenty years, to years Lily was still alive and still speaking to him; still smiling like that when she looked his way.

"That it's good to see you," Potter went on. "I was... it was over to soon. You know? After... everything."

"That's eloquent," Severus heard himself say.

Potter blinked, and then he grinned. It was faint, but still. Severus wished he would just get into the Floo and go. This was too... disorientating. He'd endured enough shocks recently, hadn't he?

He wished Lupin would say something, but he only stood slightly behind Severus, holding his dozing son and saying nothing at all, leaving Severus to the mercy of this ebb and flow of emotion as the past laid itself over the present.

"Yeah, well," Potter said, "I don't think eloquence was high on Gryffindor's Must-Have list, probably. I just wished I'd had a chance to say some things that I thought I wouldn't get to." Then he grinned more widely, his eyes cutting toward Lupin. "But I guess I'll get loads more chances, so I'll just leave it there for now. Bye, Remus. Happy Christmas—both of you."

"Merry Christmas, Harry," Lupin said. Severus didn't.

The Floo flared green with the eruption of powder. Potter called, "The Burrow." He smiled as he ducked into the fireplace, waved, and with a final flare of the fire, was gone. The memories he'd dredged up and given a brief, discordant life scattered in scraps across the landscape of Severus' heart.

Lupin's hand rested briefly on his shoulder blade. Severus wished Lupin wasn't holding his son. He really thought he would have turned around and kissed Lupin otherwise. Perhaps he'd even have asked, "Why does it still fucking hurt?"

"I wasn't sure if I was only dreaming all this after dying," Severus said flatly, staring into the fireplace, lightless once again. "But now I'm sure, because Harry Potter couldn't have just told me to have a merry fucking Christmas."

"Oh Severus," Lupin said. That was one of the things he now loved about Lupin, quite literally: he had a sense of when Severus was being serious and when he was not. He knew that a part of Severus wasn't yet sure this was real.

"Come with me," Lupin said, gentle and quiet. "I need to put Teddy to bed."

* * *

 

_**MYSTERY POISONER UNMASKED** _

**December 24th, 1999**

Ten days ago, when a dinner party of well-respected witches and wizards all had their heads turned backwards, the wizarding world felt the first uneasy stirrings of seismic activity that would shake our world to its foundations. But as this isolated case was rushed through St. Mungo's, no one had the slightest idea that we were looking at the first victims of a poison that would destroy the hard-won peace, not only of our holidays but of our lives after the War that split our country apart.

I was given the opportunity to interview Mr Cringe, the poisoner, to hear his story and report it to the people he left alive to hear it. I expected to meet a raving madman and to hear condemnations shouted in my face, or ravings of his genius. I did not expect to be told that he was sorry. I didn't expect it to mean anything.

Some of us may remember Lancelot Cringe, the well-spoken young man who featured prominently in a scandal back in '96. Suspected as the lover of the son of an influential politician, Lancelot was publicly discredited, dismissed from his apprenticeship at the Wizengamot, and black-listed throughout the Ministry. A few people probably noticed him distributing healing salves and potions on street corners during the darkest days of You-Know-Who's reign, but even fewer people are likely to be aware that he was imprisoned by You-Know-Who's regime for these attempts at helping the rebels. Mr Cringe remained in prison until June of '98, when his former lover, William Cauther (whose name is published at his own request), pulled the strings of his father's influence for Lancelot's release and offered him a job in the Department Accident & Catastrophes.

Mr Cringe tells me that it was his job in the Ministry that allowed him to spread the poison.

"I am skilled at Potions," he says to me, with a kind of tranquil modesty. He is a very serene person. "I used Polyjuice to move about the mail rooms, and applied the potions to pamphlets and papers that I sent out directly. For the targets in prison, I sent holiday cards. I had to deliver them myself, but it's not at all difficult to get into a prison, only out of one.

"I planned very carefully," he tells me. "I wanted no one to be hurt who had not done any wrong."

I said that I walked in expecting condemnations. What I got instead was a regretful culprit who spoke of contrition and retribution.

"The War was a very terrible time," he says. "Full of many dark days. I wanted to fight, but my only gift was brewing. And then I was sent to prison, and I could not help at all. All I could do was pray for the safety of those who fought. I prayed the War would end and the Light would triumph.

"But then I was released from prison, and it was not into a world of hope, but a world of injustice. All around me were people who had done nothing for good, who had fought for no cause, and yet who still committed evil every day around me. Everywhere I looked I saw callous hearts, uncaring faces. Good people had died for them, and they lived on in their pettiness.

"I felt they needed to feel sorry for what they had done. If it would not happen to them by divine grace, I would make it happen for them."

It intrigued me, this religious devotion. Most of us are not religious. Don't the Muggle books ask for witches to die and say that sorcery is evil? I ask Mr Cringe this.

"Even when you love someone," he says, "you do not believe every single thing they say, do you?

"I wish to be clear," he says. "I am not doing this for God. I have not done this for the sake of the souls of those who have done evil. I have done it for the sake of the people they have hurt."

He explains to me that he took the ideas for his potions from a famous Muggle text based on Roman Catholicism, _The Divine Comedy_ , where sinners were punished in Hell according to the weight of their transgressions.

"It is called contrapasso," he says to me. "The counterpoise."

"But this seems to be about God," I say.

"It isn't," he says. "The actions of one man are never about an infinite being. Not even the actions of many thousands of men. God did not put malice in our hearts. We do that ourselves. We make our own choices. When we make the wrong ones, someone holds us accountable. That is the premise of our laws, is it not?"

"And what about Severus Snape?" I ask. "Harry Potter says that he's innocent."

"Harry Potter is an estimable man," Mr Cringe says. "I know that Severus Snape did many things for the War, and that his true allegiance was to the Light, yet I felt it did not redress the weight of other things he had done. But I forgot the truth of God's mercy. 'The just is close to the people's heart, while the merciful is close to the heart of God.' If a man truly repents in his heart, God will see it, and will reward him with forgiveness. As I may hope he will reward me for what I have done. Men will not. I would not. But it had to be done. It had to be.

"But it is over now."

* * *

 

"That's... peaceful," Severus said as Lupin lit a lamp that spiraled lighted shapes of benign sea creatures across the walls.

Lupin only smiled as he laid his son down.

Severus watched him in silence. He had never really thought of having children. He supposed he had assumed, when he was very young, that he would have them eventually; although later, when he thought about it seriously, he believed that inflicting his own genetics upon another human being would be somehow morally reprehensible. And then the greatest part of his life had become a shrine built on the twin precepts of his love for Lily and his own self-loathing, and there had been no opportunity for anything that now breathed in this room—not children, not someone to share them with—no one to share anything with; but most of all, none of that heart-aching tenderness that came over Lupin at times like these as if light from Heaven was real, and shining on him.

"I'm in love with you," Lupin said, looking up at him.

There was such simple grace in the way he said it. And the way the lamplight shone on the planes of his face, in the silver of his hair...

Severus' heart wanted to transform itself to motes of light, but his mind felt cracked, filled with shards of glass.

"Don't," he whispered, as his still-solid heart jolted in a panic that he wouldn't get the rest out, that this time Lupin _wouldn't_ understand and it would all be ruined, all destroyed, all gone. "Don't—joke—about that."

"I'm not joking," Lupin said with utmost gentleness. "I understand, completely, if it upsets you—"

"Upsets me?" Severus heard as if from far away. "Who would—how could—what do you—" He made himself stop, because the thoughts wouldn't form themselves and be spoken.

Lupin left his son's bedside and came to sit within arm's reach. "Severus?" he said, still gentle.

Severus couldn't say anything; physically he could not. But he _needed_ to communicate something. He did the only thing he could, and grabbed Lupin by the hand. His grip was probably crushing, but he was as unable to loosen it as he was incapable of speaking.

Lupin did not move right away. Severus watched the shape of a sea turtle swim brightly across Lupin's eyes, paling them to whiteness. He was looking straight into Severus' face.

Then he folded his hand over Severus', his touch full of that warmth that reminded Severus of sunlight filling the lands by the sea in the summer. It felt like a physical manifestation of hope, pouring possibilities into his heart; desires he might, he could almost, in this moment, purely believe might be fulfilled.

Lupin didn't say anything either. Perhaps he was letting Severus recover, for lack of a better word (it was a true word), or maybe he didn't have any words that he felt were appropriate. He just rested his hand over Severus' gripping his.

It felt as if the sea creatures had swum across the seven seas by the time Lupin said, "Andromeda's sick."

Severus had been staring at some part of Lupin the whole while—his shoulder, his knuckles, his silver-flecked eyebrows that could only be seen when a light-beam fish swam across his face. Now he looked fully into Lupin's face, which was turned toward the bed; toward his son.

"How sick?" Severus asked, even more quietly than his voice required.

"It's Lobelia's Disease."

Severus considered and discarded several replies as being completely inadequate means of comfort. "That isn't necessarily fatal."

"No," Lupin said, his smile visible in the light of a passing swordfish. "And it's early days yet, she was diagnosed well in time. Mainly I'm afraid she'll... give up."

Lupin didn't have to elaborate. Severus wondered if Nymphadora's ghost had just settled between them. Lily, even if she had come only into Severus' imagination, had made his feelings a matter of celebration. But the circumstances were, of course, so different.

"But Narcissa's invited her to stay here," Lupin said. "While she's getting treatment, and says she knows some very good Healers. There's a Baron or something, I understand?"

"Yes," Severus said. If anyone could turn the presumed defilement of an old flame's niece into a favor the uncle was only too happy to bestow, it would be Narcissa. "Your sister will be in good hands, if she agrees."

"She has. All things considered, it's best. If we're not in England, you know, there will be less... scrutiny. If a werewolf seems to be practically raising his son." Then he stopped, almost as if he were holding his breath.

"Especially a famous werewolf," Severus said quietly. "Whose son happens to be the godson of the famous Harry Potter."

"Yes," Lupin said, a smile in his voice. "Very public figure, that werewolf. It might be better for him if he relocates somewhere less conspicuous, for a while."

A tickling on Severus' hand made him realize that Lupin was tracing idle patterns with his fingertips on the back of Severus' hand. The sensation raised gooseflesh first along Severus' arms and then swept down his back and thighs.

"I was hoping you might know some good places," Lupin murmured, somewhere between inviting and shy. "To be inconspicuous in. Since you're rather an old hand at that."

"Old?" Severus said. "I'll have you know I won't be forty for another fortnight."

Lupin laughed, as though he was delighted by something more than what Severus had said. He leaned toward Severus as though he was going to kiss him, but at the last moment stopped, as if unsure it would be permitted, or appropriate. Severus curled his hand around the back of Lupin's neck and drew him in, wondering how dreadful he was at this, after so long without practice, and then not caring when Lupin kissed him so perfectly, and with such delight. Severus couldn't hope he was approximating such joy; his most powerful feeling was one of desperate yearning.

"Are you saying, Lupin," Severus murmured when Lupin drew back, but rested their foreheads together, "that you want me as a dubious influence on your child? You don't think he's badly behaved enough as it is?"

Lupin's laugh warmed his mouth. "I don't think you're _quite_ as bad as George," he said, smiling broadly, and then he pulled back a bit more, cocking his head. It made his bangs feather across his eyes. Severus didn't realize that he had reached up and smoothed them out of the way until he wondered what was making Lupin smile at him like that, as though Severus had just done something perfect, exactly what Lupin had wanted before he even knew he wanted it. This was almost like having the power of Leglimency with him.

"Why won't you call me 'Remus'?" Lupin asked. "Can you tell me?"

Severus kept softly brushing at Lupin's bangs. He considered telling him the truth, and then decided he might as well. "I was afraid it would give too much away."

Lupin looked both surprised and curious. "What d'you mean?"

"I was afraid I would sound like a besotted old sod, and that you'd know the truth."

Lupin drew in a breath, his eyes widening slightly. "The truth that you were a besotted old sod?" he said, with an attempt at lightness.

"Yes."

Lupin's eyes roved over his face, and then he kissed him, with a sharper purpose than he'd shown moments ago; even more sharply than he had in the Greengrasses' drafty castle. "Say it now," he said, his hoarse voice low, almost commanding, and shooting straight to the core of Severus' arousal.

"Remus," Severus said softly, unable to stifle the feeling that Lupin had just asked him to do something intimate, and he'd agreed.

Lupin's breath rushed out of him sharply; his grip on Severus tightened, and then he kissed Severus in a way that made all _his_ breath dissolve in a rush of heat. Lupin trailed a series of hot kisses along Severus' jaw, and then down his throat. Severus' head fell back; he couldn't help it. He slid his fingers back into Lupin's hair, feeling as if Lupin was stripping his sanity away with every kiss, every touch, every mote of heat from his body.

"Is that all it takes?" Severus murmured into Lupin's ear, pleased that he still managed to sound as if he possessed some feeble control; as if Lupin's touch and his passion and the fact that it was wrapping around Severus wasn't pulling him to pieces. He murmured, "Just the sound of your name? I'm not sure I can handle the thought of"— _being fiercely, desperately, soul-consuming in love with_ "—you being so easy."

Lupin huffed a laugh into his hair. "It's your voice, I think," he said, his own voice muffled. "And the fact that it's you."

As little as Severus could really believe this, he so very much wanted, so entirely _yearned_ for it to be true, that he didn't protest.

They were breathing heavily, and he could feel Lupin's excitement and arousal. It made his own strengthen with a sudden power that dizzied him.

"I'm suddenly aware that your son is asleep fifteen feet away," Severus said, although he didn't try to disentangle himself.

"Where _is_ Andromeda?" Lupin muttered. "I hope she's feeling all right..."

"You're so _nice_ ," Severus said. "I was thinking she'd better not suddenly decide she was taking the bloody night off." He brushed his thumb just behind Lupin's ear to mitigate the sting of his personality, but Lupin only laughed softly and nuzzled his jaw.

"With our luck, she will."

"I was afraid you'd say that," Severus said. It was difficult being so close to fulfillment—emotional, physical, almost life-long—when you were too close to a sleeping infant.

"She should at least come in to say goodnight," Lupin said, and then, with an intense regret, "so we should probably... sit up."

At some point they had fallen back against the arm of the couch and slid down. Lupin was so warm, and the weight of him across Severus' body was intensely comforting in a way Severus would never have thought he'd find it. He hadn't thought he'd enjoy being pinned down, even if it was only nominally, but he _liked_ it. "I _really_ don't want to."

Lupin's smile was full of tender softness, and his kiss was full of that intriguing enticement to make Severus do the exact opposite of what he wanted. The way Lupin teased him upward by gently pulling away, but not all the way, so that Severus had to follow him up or lose the kiss, was quite ingenious.

"You're much better at this than I think anyone has a right to be," Severus said, and kissed him again. Lupin had said "sit up" but left out "no kissing," and Severus would milk every moment until it fully occurred to Lupin that his mother-in-law might be enraged by more than impropriety if she walked in on her widowed son-in-law kissing someone in front of her sleeping grandson.

"I'm trying very hard," Lupin whispered as if he were sharing a secret, his eyes full of laughter. "Of course, I could be lazier, if you'd like."

"False modesty is as irritating as groundless arrogance," Severus said, wishing they were far away from surprise discoveries by either mothers-in-law or sleeping children.

"I know I said to sit up," Lupin murmured a few minutes later, nudging his nose through Severus' hair, "but you're still being quite distracting."

"Slytherin," Severus said, pleased with the way Lupin bit Severus' lip in surprise when he scraped his fingernails over a particular spot on Lupin's back, beneath his shirt. "Opportunist."

"I think it's a quality I haven't fully appreciated until now," Lupin said, a bit short of breath. "Do you want to read the article Harry brought?"

"No," Severus said, his arousal banking slightly as if exposed to a chilled breeze.

"You were right," Lupin said. "About all of it."

"Joy. Now I can sleep at night."

"Well," Lupin murmured, tracing his fingers along the back of Severus' neck, under his hair; making him shiver. "I wasn't really thinking about sleeping, any time soon..."

Severus tried to remind himself that if he murdered Andromeda Tonks, then there would be no one to watch the boy. Or could he ask Narcissa? Surely she'd be delighted to do it.

At the sound of footsteps in the hallway, they both went still as cornered rabbits. Severus made a quick decision.

"I'll be in my room," he muttered. "Come if you can. If for some reason you don't make it—" He wanted to say _I understand_ but couldn't quite manage it. He kissed Lupin instead, swiftly, and rose from the couch. He tried not to think how in the absence of Lupin's warmth, he felt cold; almost empty.

He felt Lupin's hand squeeze his once, and then he was slipping through the door into the adjoining sitting-room, with one last glance behind him, at Lupin. Remus. Who smiled at him.

Severus gently closed the door between them. He turned around, and almost collided with Narcissa.

She arched her left eyebrow. "You weren't supposed to leave with the boy. You were supposed to bring him back to me and Andromeda before you went off with Lupin."

"It wasn't my idea," Severus said. "What are you doing?" he asked as she turned him around and nudged him back into Lupin's—Remus'—room.

Remus looked up in surprise from the sofa. He blinked at the sight of Narcissa pushing Severus gently at his shoulders. "Hello again," he said, sounding puzzled.

"Andromeda is feeling quite tired. And seeing as tomorrow—today, actually," she said, glancing at the ormolu clock on the mantle, "is Christmas day, thought she might preserve her strength. Paddy is making an excellent feast, and I've invited Mr Potter to bring a few of his friends by, if he can spare the time."

Severus numb with horror. "You _what_?"

Remus squeezed his arm, smiling.

"Just for pudding," Narcissa said with maddening calm. "You're quite welcome to hide anywhere you like with Mr. Lupin while they're here."

"Thank you for _warning_ me, at any rate."

"Oh, that was incidental. Actually, I came to watch Teddy for the evening. I do so miss having children around me, and Draco isn't nearly ready for fatherhood." She scooped Teddy up from the bed with the same practiced ease as his father, tucking his head with utmost gentleness against her shoulder.

"I hope you don't mind, Mr Lupin," she said tranquilly. "Severus can keep you company, at least."

She smiled one of her invisible smiles as she left carrying Remus' sleeping son in her arms. The door swung to its frame behind her without a sound.

* * *

 

_Christmas_

Remus' voice broke the silence that had settled around them in the light-tinted darkness. "Who'd have thought? Narcissa Malfoy doing something that seems... thoughtful. I suppose she has an agenda, though?"

"Narcissa always has an agenda." Even as he said it, he began to relax. In her own way, Narcissa was very straightforward. "She's most likely scheming for social rehabilitation. If she plays nicel with Potter and his circle, the Malfoys may look respectable again, in a decade or so."

"Mmmm." Remus looked pensive, and then kissed him. There was definite, renewed purpose behind it. Severus felt his spine tingle. "You know," Remus murmured, "I find I don't particularly care. About any of it."

"No?" Severus asked, with a credible assumption of nonchalance, not as if impulses of desire were sparking along every inch of his skin, radiating from each of Lupin's hands and his mouth.

"No." Lupin smiled at him. "I find I don't care about very much outside of this room."

"It's a very nice room, after all."

"The room's all right," Lupin said, kissing him once, twice, three times along his jaw, each kiss hot and lingering. Severus skated his fingers along the back of Lupin's neck in response. "But I like it infinitely more because you're in it."

Severus turned his head and kissed him properly. Remus' fingers were in his hair, and his heat was folding all around him; the bed seemed to come up behind him out of nowhere, and yet it wasn't a moment too soon. More skin was exposed, and then all of it. Remus' skin was hot to the touch, and his touch was like the language of desire. Severus thought about dousing the sea-creature lamp, the only light besides the fire; considered enveloping them in darkness so that Lupin wouldn't see how unattractive every bit of Severus was. But it was worth being exposed in all his ugliness if he could still see Remus, the expressiveness of his face, his eyes. He wanted, needed to see the manifestation of Remus' desire for himself, to make it real.

"Severus," Remus was murmuring, kissing hot along his hairline, and then over his cheekbone, across the bridge of his nose, back to his mouth. His hands moved across Severus' skin, mapping the contours of his face, his chest, his thighs.

There were scars knitted across Remus' body, a chronicle of full moons. Severus traced along them with the pads of his fingers, and then the tips of his nails, making Remus gasp.

"Remus," Severus replied, trailing his hand down Remus' ribcage, over his thigh, and between.

Remus huffed a laugh into Severus' hair. How insulting. Even if it _did_ trail off into a groan when Severus bit his shoulder.

"Don't you know not to laugh at a man in bed," Severus said, curling his hand up the back of Remus' other thigh, to where it met his back.

"Don't you know not to tease?" Remus shifted his hips slightly and rocked, and Severus' dug his nails into the flesh beneath them, refusing to let out the gasp that had leapt into his throat. Remus did gasp, a lovely sound.

"A Gryffindor wants directness? I'll endeavor to oblige, then."

Remus laughed again. "I think using words of that many syllables in bed qualifies as its own insult, don't you?"

"Says you," said Severus. When Remus laughed again, Severus took his face in his hands and guided Remus' eyes to meet his. "What do you want?" he asked, quiet but yes, direct.

Remus looked down at him, and smiled. "Other than you?"

Well, if a Gryffindor wanted to be evasive, a Slytherin could be direct. Severus rolled Remus beneath him and slid down to—

"Ah," Remus gasped. Severus smirked to himself. Emotions were messy—well, so was this—but this he could deal with; this he knew how to do, even if it had been so long since he'd even wanted to.

He very much wanted to, now. All of it.

Remus tugged gently on his hair. When Severus raised his head, Remus pounced on him, kissing him almost fiercely, rolling them around on the bed. Severus almost wanted to laugh, because this was almost like joy.

"I am tempted," Remus said between kisses, which were migrating down Severus' body, "to call you a minx."

"Now... who's a... tease?" Severus managed, as the kisses took a needlessly circuitous path, each one of them winding his arousal more and more tightly.

Remus' laugh sounded suspiciously like a giggle. Severus would have made fun of him for it, but Remus' mouth had finally found its target, and even Severus couldn't manage mockery in the wake of that much direct pleasure. He didn't even remember what he was supposed to be mocking, or why he would want to, because Remus was as perfect at this as he was at everything else...

And now he was using fingers to— "Ahh-a," Severus gasped, arching.

"Is that a good 'ahh-a'?" Remus murmured against his skin.

"Stop and I'll kill you."

Remus laughed again and kissed the area he could reach. Severus didn't really want to slide back into banter at this point, so he was glad that Remus left words behind and continued with touches and explorations, narrowed around a purpose that Severus was surprised to find he wanted very badly, despite never having offered it before. There had been no one he would have trusted, before this. No one else, like this.

But Remus could be trusted; not only with hearts, but to do exactly right. He moved neither too slowly nor too quickly, at a pace of gentleness that must have taken iron control to maintain, and yet somehow not too gentle, with that purpose and desire behind it. It was all very... Remus.

And Severus had always had a sense about what combinations of factors would produce which results. It didn't take him long to discover that while Remus appeared to naturally take control in bed, he did not want passivity; when Severus scraped at his skin with his nails or nipped with his teeth, a bit of Remus' characteristic poise unraveled. Severus liked it. He knew not to push it, but the sight of Remus coming undone in his arms was as irresistible as the man himself. He grazed his nails through Remus' hair, guiding him back into a kiss, and the moment of completion was as full and sweet as sunlight in the dark of winter.

* * *

 

Remus felt completely boneless and utterly at peace. His body clung to the sheets wherever they met, and he could feel the dampness in his hair, across his bare chest, gathered in the small of his back. The illuminated animals of Teddy's sea-creature lamp were still swimming across the walls, trailing motes of light across the bed as they circled.

"Lancelot wrote me a letter," he said drowsily.

Severus turned his head toward him, tickling Remus' outflung arm with his hair. "How can you be so charming in general and so sodding wretched at pillow talk?" he asked. In the dim, spicy intimacy of the room, his voice had an almost decadent quality to it, one that made Remus' recently satiated arousal stir sleepily. He wanted always to wake up and fall asleep with that voice in his ear.

Remus' chest shook with his laugh. "Sorry."

"I hope we'll be able to find other things to talk about eventually," Severus said, sounding almost bored. "Even if our previous relationships have all been built on absolute morbidity. But I believe one is supposed to progress, eventually."

"You could always tell me jokes," Remus said, highly amused, as his heart ached with the full sweetness of delight, and love.

"On second thought, I think I'd rather be morbid. Go on. Why was the cracked son of a bitch writing _you_?"

"Well, he wanted to apologize, for one thing." Severus snorted; Remus didn't blame him one bit. "And I think he wanted to explain, outside of the papers. They'll print it differently than how it really is."

"Naturally," Severus muttered.

"Would you like to read it?" Remus asked.

Severus shrugged. Remus figured he wasn't really interested, but for some reason he couldn't let it drop.

"He did try to kill you, after all. In fact..." He wondered if he should tell Severus the truth, and then decided he might as well: Severus was the sort of person who didn't cower from the truth. Well, not truths made of facts; he did sort of shrink in the face of emotion, but emotions could be more frightening than outright danger. "He managed it, for a few minutes."

In the soft light of a passing dolphin, Remus saw Severus blink at the ceiling. Then he rolled onto his side and propped himself up on his elbow, his eyebrows raised above the eyes Remus had missed while he looked like that other man. They were as black as the sky above the water at night, far out to sea; as fathomless as eternity.

"Are you saying I effectively _died_?"

"Your heart stopped beating," Remus said quietly. Almost unbidden, his hand lifted to settle on Severus' chest, above his heart. Severus looked down at it but didn't speak. "Draco and I had to use magic to force your body to swallow the bezoar. For a few minutes..."

His voice suspended in the memory and he had to stop. Severus sank back to the mattress beside him, passing his thumbs over Remus' eyebrows, curling his fingers to settle over Remus' cheekbones. He still didn't say anything, but he looked a lot less bothered by the prospect of his own death than Remus felt. Remus supposed this was a comfort. He didn't _want_ Severus to be upset, to know the immediate memory of looking down at someone you would have given your life for, as their life dissipated into nothing more than a weight of remorse and memories in your heart.

That had happened to them both too many times. It had almost happened to them. It had been so close, and at the end he'd been so useless. And it had nearly been _the end_. If Draco had been a little less practical, or Severus a little less stubborn, or Lancelot a little bit quicker—

All things considered, it was something of a miracle that they had come to this, here, at the end.

"Let it go," Severus said, his fingers carding through Remus' hair. "It's over now."

Remus nodded, telling himself to breathe normally. It was easier, with Severus lying warm beside him. The more days went by, the easier it would be to forget. It always was, even when you hadn't been so phenomenally, miraculously lucky as to have all your prayers answered.

"Shh." Severus kissed his forehead, then his eyelids, then his mouth. "I survived. We all did. Your son is well. Your mother in law will have her treatments and live to see her grandson grow up and break hearts. Draco and Asteria will be disgusting together, Potter will pester me to tell him stories about Lily, and you and I will talk about the weather."

Remus laughed, feeling tears cluster in the corner of his eyes. He wrapped his arms around Severus' shoulders and drew him closer, until they were pressed together again and he could feel the beat of Severus' heart against his skin. Severus was warm; he was alive; he was here, and he was himself.

"That sounds lovely," he whispered.

"Almost revolting," Severus said, his soft voice warm on Remus' face.

Remus said, "Perfect."

_The End_


End file.
